


The Great New Jersey Honeypot Debacle of Ought-Nine

by Laura Kaye (laurakaye), zappedbysnow



Series: The Family Way [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpacas, Big Hair, But There Are Many, Dom Phil Coulson, During-relationship flashback to the time before the relationship, Flashbacks, Framing Story, Honeymoon, I Have To Watch My Partner Have Sex For Justice, If I Start Tagging Individual Sex Acts We'll Be Here All Day, Jersey Shore References Not Included, Kinky, M/M, Masturbation, Mission Fic, Mutual Pining, Phil Coulson is Smoking Hot, Porn with Feelings, Strike Team Delta, Surveillance Van, The Things SHIELD Does For Global Security, This is Mostly Smut and People Having Emotions, Threesome - F/M/M, True Love, Undercover Missions, Voyeurism, aka My Speciality, all the feelings, honeypot mission, minor mention of homophobia, pre-sequel, so many feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-04-07 18:05:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14086575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurakaye/pseuds/Laura%20Kaye, https://archiveofourown.org/users/zappedbysnow/pseuds/zappedbysnow
Summary: "Listen, my children, while I tell you the epic tale of Agent Phil Coulson and the Great New Jersey Honeypot Debacle of Ought-Nine.”





	1. Hot Guys And Baby Animals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snottygrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snottygrrl/gifts).



> This story is what I like to call a pre-sequel to my story _The Family Way,_ because it is set AFTER that story but contains a lengthy flashback to events that happened BEFORE it. So: if you haven't read _The Family Way,_ you may want to go read that first: I'll wait. :)
> 
> This story is dedicated to snottygrrl, in gratitude for commenting on every single blessed post we did of _Passepartout_ for A YEAR AND A HALF. There were days when I LIVED to see that comment, and when we finished the story I told Kathar I was going to dedicate the very next story I finished to you. THANK YOU, you have no idea how much that meant to us.
> 
> Many thanks, as always, to Kathar for beta and to the Order of St. Wilfrid for encouragement and joy.
> 
> This story is completely drafted; chapters will post every couple days as I get beta notes back and finish revising.

The morning sun shone pale and sweet over the fields, glittering on the wet grass as the last clouds from the previous day’s storms were driven off by gusts of cool wind. Clint hung the feed bucket back on its hook, grinning at the fat, happy chickens as they clucked and pecked around his boots.

Once he’d gathered all the eggs—or at least all the ones he could find, given the sneakiness of the hens—and put them away, he went out to take care of Barney and Laura’s new little alpaca herd.

He checked all the water troughs first, making sure they were clean and full. It was still cool in the barn, but Clint knew he’d warm up as he started working; he shrugged off his flannel shirt and tied it around his waist, leaving him in just his sleeveless undershirt. 

This time of year, the ‘pacas were allowed to roam the little pasture as they pleased; as he moved around the paddock, they started coming closer, knowing that the presence of a human meant feeding time would come soon. 

“That’s right, fuzzbutts,” Clint told them. “Gimme a minute to finish cleaning up your shit, then it’s breakfast time.”

Pulling on his work gloves, he went to work on the dung piles; it wasn’t as fun a crop as the fleece, but apparently the stuff made for good compost, and Barney and Laura had been selling what they didn’t need for their own garden to locals who wanted to go organic.

The less pleasant chore done, it was time for morning feed. There was plenty of grass in their pasture, of course, but the supplemental feed made sure that the animals had the right nutrient mix, and it must be pretty tasty to alpaca palates, judging by how quickly the rustle of the feed bags had them perking up, coming right over to nudge at him, making their funny little humming sounds that always sounded kind of like a Wookiee to Clint. He laughed as their coats tickled his bare arms; the shearer was coming in a couple of weeks, apparently, to give the herd their spring haircut, and in the meantime the alpacas were at peak fluff.

He saved the crias for last; there were two, fresh additions to the herd, one tawny gold and one the color of chocolate. They weren’t twins—they weren’t even related—but Lila had insisted they be named Luke and Leia, anyway. They weren’t weaned, yet, but they still pushed up happily to nibble their feed, letting Clint crouch down to pet their soft backs.

“There, now, sweethearts, eat your breakfast,” he told them. (Truth be told, he might have been crooning a little, but honestly, you’d have to have a heart of stone to look at their silly, long-lashed faces and _not_ talk baby talk to them.) “Isn’t that nice? Yeah, you like that, don’t you? Gotta grow up big and strong, there’s a good ‘paca.”

“You know,” a voice said from the fence behind him, “if the whole fiber cooperative thing doesn’t work out, Barney and Laura could always get into the pin-up calendar business. ‘Hot Guys and Baby Alpacas.’ They’d make a mint.”

Clint laughed, turning and squinting into the sun at his husband; after nearly two months he was still not used to the way it made his heart leap to think of Phil that way. Phil was looking soft and rumpled and delicious, in jeans and a t-shirt and one of Clint’s hoodies. He had his glasses on, and a big travel mug in each hand. “I think that market niche is already pretty full,” he said. “I’m not exactly the pin-up type, anyway. Too many miles on me.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Phil tilted his head as he gave Clint a slow once-over. “I’d buy one. Maybe several.” He held up one of the travel mugs. “I brought you out a coffee.”

Clint dusted off his hands and gave the crias a last pat. “This is why I married you, you know.” He opened the gate and joined Phil outside the paddock, brushing a kiss over Phil’s smile as he took the coffee. “Well. One of the reasons.”

Phil smiled, his eyes crinkled happily behind his glasses. “I know I expressed some concerns over this whole farm-sitting idea when you brought it up, but I have to admit, I’m rapidly warming to the whole thing.” 

Clint chuckled. Barney’s family was on a vacation—their first ever—and he and Phil were looking after the farm while they were gone. They were calling it a belated honeymoon, since their real honeymoon had been cut short by a robot-related emergency before they even checked into their hotel. The farm wasn’t exactly a five-star resort, but it had good memories for both of them and only a handful of people even knew it existed, so it worked out pretty well on the whole. Phil was even taking leave, though Clint suspected that Daisy was texting him regular updates on the sly.

“Decided you’re an alpaca fan after all?”

“No,” Phil said. “Well, I mean. They are pretty cute, but they’re not exactly the most attractive thing about the scenery right now.”

Clint looked down at his mucky boots and dirt-streaked jeans, the purple plaid flannel knotted around his waist, the white tank top with wisps of hay still clinging to it. “Um,” he said. “Do you have some kind of fetish we haven’t previously explored? Because, I mean, I’d be okay with that, as long as we keep it out of the hayloft.”

Phil rolled his eyes, mouth twitching with suppressed laughter. “It’s not a _fetish,_ ” he said, “although I’m pretty sure I may have possessed a certain magazine in my youth that featured your current outfit more or less exactly. It’s just… you.” He shrugged, gesturing at Clint’s… everything… with his coffee cup. “I mean, you’re an expert at ‘unintentionally sexy,’ but I never thought you’d top that time in Venice.”

“Venice?” Clint asked, blinking. “Seriously?”

“You had on that suit,” Phil said. “You were suavely dancing—”

“That suit was a war crime; I could hardly move for how tight it was. Plus, there was nothing suave about that dancing,” Clint told him. “That was the dancing of a man trying to keep the mark’s wife’s hands off his junk.”

“Well, it _looked_ suave,” Phil said, switching his coffee to his other hand to free one up to pat Clint’s ass. “All those little hip movements; you were killing me.”

“Also wasn’t that the time when the mark’s second-in-command shot up the gala with an AK-47? I almost got impaled by the horn of a unicorn ice sculpture!”

“You flipped over the unicorn head midair while returning fire,” Phil said dreamily, “and then you ran down the railing and did a somersault into a passing gondola.”

“I split my pants!”

“Hmm,” Phil said. “I remember.” 

“Oh my god, you _perv,_ ” Clint said, leaning into his shoulder affectionately. “You were so sympathetic, too. Damn, you’ve got a good poker face.”

“Eh, I do all right,” Phil said. “It was… well. I was trying not to let myself indulge, because of the, er, situation.”

“Yeah.” Clint had to kiss him again, a tiny apology for the long years when Clint’s own complicated family situation had kept them apart. “I mean, you were always hot as hell in the field, too, but at least I didn’t think I needed to feel bad for thinking so.”

Phil shrugged. “It all worked out in the end,” he said. “Though given my usual undercover persona, I’m not sure where you found many opportunities for… admiration.”

“Are you kidding me? You remember Santiago, right? Boca Raton? That sting in Maui?” 

“I did have a nice suit in Maui,” Phil allowed.

“But I mean, the best one,” Clint continued, “the one that haunted my fucking _dreams_ , Phil, is Atlantic City.”

Phil half-turned, the better to stare at him incredulously. “No.”

“Oh, yes.”

“That op was a _debacle!_ ” 

“A _sexy_ debacle,” Clint said. “I’ll never forget it as long as I live, though I like to keep the memories nice and private. Honestly, Woo and Sitwell have been dining out on it every time they do an Ops seminar ever since, and they don’t even know the half of it.”

“Fortunately,” Phil muttered.

“I mean, I wouldn’t have to buy my own beer for like a decade, if I was willing to share,” Clint continued, smirking. “I’d go over to any place where SHIELD agents gather, and I would tell them, ‘listen, my children, while I tell you the epic tale of Agent Phil Coulson and the Great New Jersey Honeypot Debacle of Ought-Nine.”

“Ought-Nine?”

“It sounds more epic that way.”

“There was nothing epic about it,” Phil groaned. “The whole thing was a complete disaster from beginning to end.”

“Except for the part where you kept the mission from going south and we retrieved vital intel and saved eighty-seven people from getting human-trafficked,” Clint pointed out.

“Well, okay, yes, except for that part.” Phil scowled grumpily at his coffee.

Clint sighed, tilting his head back to the sky and losing himself in memory. “I remember it like it was yesterday…”


	2. Operation Glass Thorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wait, they’re evil _swingers?”_ Clint blurted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter was short so you get another update today!! Note that the chapters are kind of an uneven length - the story as a whole is about 30k.

**May 12, 2009**

**SHIELD Headquarters, New York**

Clint Barton was having a good day.

The sun was shining, the cafeteria hadn’t run out of the really good taco salads before he got to lunch for once, and he’d had encouraging news that morning from his brother, through one of their encrypted back-channels. No promises—of course not, they’d learned fast not to believe in promises—but Barney thought that, once he wrapped up his current project, there was a real chance he’d finally get to end his long undercover stint. He’d finally get to go home, and then Clint would—then Clint could—he’d be free to…

Well. To live his own life, instead of his brother’s. To finally do something about Phil. About him and Phil, that is. Phil who was going to be coming along any minute now to give them a briefing about their next mission.

Clint wondered if he’d be wearing his blue suit. The blue one was Clint’s favorite.

“Stop whistling,” Natasha said, shooting him a sour look.

“I wasn’t,” Clint protested.

“You really were, man,” Woo said.

“Oh.” Clint looked down at the conference table, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Sorry, guys.”

“Good afternoon, Agents.” Phil’s voice was a welcome relief as he and Sitwell came through the door, probably straight from another meeting if Clint’s memory of Phil’s calendar for the day was good. (Phil shared it with him and Nat, okay, at least the parts that weren’t classified; Clint had permission to know, he wasn’t being creepy.)

It wasn’t the blue suit today, it was the charcoal, but Phil was wearing a blue tie that really brought out his eyes, which was almost as good. Clint grinned across the table at Phil, receiving a startled little half-smile in return before Phil visibly pulled himself back into meeting mode.

While everyone was exchanging greetings and Sitwell was syncing the briefing packets to everyone’s tablets, Phil threw up a dossier on the big screen.

“We’ve finally caught a break on Operation Glass Thorn,” he said, and the room went immediately quiet. Glass Thorn was one of those longstanding ops that got under everyone’s skin, a months-long effort to break the back of a particularly unpleasant smuggling ring that dealt in everything from bioweapons to people, funneling the profits to—they were fairly but not entirely sure—the Ten Rings.

“Our analysts have finally found what we believe to be the weak link in the chain,” Phil said, and started flipping images out on the the screen. “DiMarco and Son Shipping, out of Pleasantville, New Jersey.”

“We’ve looked at them before,” Woo said, leaning forward. “They were tight as a drum, didn’t even hire temps. What changed?”

“Vincent DiMarco had quadruple bypass surgery,” Phil said.

“Couldn’t happen to a nicer asshole,” Clint muttered.

“So Stephanie’s in charge?” Woo asked.

“You’d have thought so,” Sitwell said, “given how involved she seems to be in running things, but apparently old man DiMarco’s sexism is stronger than his business sense.”

“Wow,” Woo said. “Vinnie Junior? Really?”

Vinnie Junior was twenty-six and acted eighteen; his contributions to the family business appeared to mostly consist of taking a really long time to get an MBA and spending his father’s money.

“Indeed,” Phil said, “presenting us with a rather unique opportunity.” Another series of surveillance photos, a man and woman going in and out of the shipping company. “Vincent DiMarco, Junior, and his wife Jennifer,” Phil said. “Apparently Stephanie DiMarco wasn’t pleased with being shut out of the business she’s been practically running for years, and Junior is worried that she may try to sue him over it. In preparation for the lawsuit, he’s started gathering documentation in his home. He’s scheduled to turn all his materials over to his attorney by the end of the month. Our intelligence suggests that the financial records in particular may give us what we need to finally locate all the nodes and break the network in one blow. However, in order to do that, we have to get copies of the information without DiMarco realizing it’s been compromised.”

“So going in force is out,” Sitwell said. “Infiltration?”

“Unfortunately, the younger DiMarco has taken his father’s paranoia to heart,” Phil said. “They only employ staff or service professionals that have been personally vetted—not just the company, but the individual employees—and anyone new has a mandatory security escort for the first full year. We can’t get in that way. However, we have identified a window of opportunity.” He flashed to a series of surveillance shots; Vincent DiMarco in bars, talking to women; leaving the bars with the women; getting into his car with the women. Different women each time, but always white, curvy, blondes or redheads.

“A cheater,” Natasha said. “How original.”

“Not quite.” Phil’s eyebrow twitched a little. “We’ve managed to track down several of Mr. DiMarco’s past liaisons. Apparently, he picks them up for himself and his wife… jointly.”

“Wait, they’re evil _swingers?_ ” Clint blurted.

“I think it’s better described as something betwen exhibitionism and a cuckold fetish,” Phil said blandly. “‘Swingers’ has more of a partner-swapping connotation, whereas apparently Mr. DiMarco is usually in more of a… passive role.”

Woo choked on a swig of coffee, and Natasha smirked.

Clint was _not going to ask_.

“More to the point,” Phil continued, “Is that on the evenings that they entertain their… guests, the DiMarcos completely dismiss their security for the evening, and they like to spend their time in a room they have specially fitted out for the purpose.”

“Sloppy,” Natasha said, frowning. “Are we sure they don’t have redundant security?”

“They have an automated system, to which we have the plans. It’s a standard installation of a standard type.” Phil flipped to a schematic. “And our intel suggests that they don’t turn on the internal motion detectors until they retire for the night.”

“I think I see the shape of this plan,” Woo said.

Phil nodded. “An agent who fits the profile of the DiMarcos’ past liaisons will set a honeypot,” he said. “While the DiMarcos are occupied, a small team will disable the security system, break into the house, and capture images of the files.” He turned to Natasha. “Agent Romanoff, since you are already involved with Operation Glass Thorn and fit the profile, you have right of first refusal for the distraction team. However, if you would prefer the infiltration team, several other agents with appropriate clearance and skill sets are available.”

Natasha smiled. “I appreciate the choice, Phil, but I’m fine with distraction,” she said. “God knows I’ve put enough time into this op; I want the satisfaction of breaking it open.”

Phil nodded. “I’ve got the debriefs from the women we interviewed about DiMarco’s preferences,” he said. “I’ll make sure you get copies; let me know anything else you’ll need.” He pulled up the next slide, a map of the DiMarco house.

“DiMarco typically goes to one of four different bars to find his pickups. If possible, we’ll find out which one and get there before him; otherwise, we’ll have him tailed and stagger our arrival afterward. I will be backing up Agent Romanoff in the bar; once she leaves with DiMarco, I’ll rejoin the mobile command center and we’ll go straight to the house, park at a safe distance, and wait for the security to leave and the DiMarcos and Agent Romanoff to get settled. Then, while Agent Romanoff keeps the DiMarcos’ attention, Barton and Woo will start the infiltration phase. There are several potential routes in and out; I leave it to the two of you to determine which works best based on the information in your briefing packets. There are also several routes to and from the room where Agent Romanoff will be. I suggest everyone who will be inside the house familiarize themselves with all the routes, just in case.”

There were nods around the table as everyone studied their schematics.

“Our best estimate is that DiMarco will go out this Saturday night,” Phil concluded. “Go over your briefing materials; if you need any equipment or supplies that aren’t on the requisitions list, I need to know by COB tomorrow. Any questions?”

“Just to clarify,” Clint said. “When do they dismiss the security?”

“Usually around the time DiMarco leaves,” Phil said. “But his wife never goes with him on the pickups.”

Clint nodded. “So we have to wait until we know the both of them are safely in their sex dungeon.”

“Their guest bedroom, yes.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “It’s a modified room in the basement of their house that they use specifically for their kinky shenanigans,” he said. “It’s a sex dungeon, Phil.”

Phil shot him a look, but there was a quirk at the corner of his mouth where he was holding back a smile. Clint leaned back in his chair, grinning with satisfaction.

“Anyone else?” Phil looked around the room. When nobody spoke up, he nodded. “All right, I won’t keep you. We’ll have a preflight Friday afternoon, report time is 11 am on Saturday.”

Clint hung around the conference room afterward, shuffling through his notes and trying to look like he wasn’t waiting around so he could walk out with Phil. (He was totally waiting around so he could walk out with Phil.) He conveniently finished reading his notes just as Phil started walking to the door, so he scooped up all his stuff and took a couple long steps toward him. Phil paused, motioning Clint through the door ahead of him.

“So, you’re giving Nat one of those rings with the knockout drops, yeah?”

“Of course,” Phil said. “It’s not the first choice—they’re likely to be suspicious if they mysteriously pass out in the middle of their—”

“Orgy?” Clint suggested, waggling his eyebrows. “Sexcapades?”

“Visit,” Phil said. He didn’t smile, though the way the corner of his mouth tucked in betrayed that he wanted to, which was very nearly as good. “But we can always stage a more mundane theft if she needs to go that route.”

“True. Toss the place, go for the cash and jewelry, likely they won’t even think about the rest. Still, though, better for the op if we don’t make them too suspicious.” They walked along in companionable silence for a little while, their shoulders almost brushing. They were both pretty broad-shouldered guys, for all Phil tried to camouflage his sometimes; if they didn’t want to block three-quarters of the hallway they had to walk pretty close together.

“You wanna grab some lunch?” Clint asked, as they drew close to the elevator. “My treat.”

Phil raised an eyebrow. “Did I forget my birthday again?”

Clint laughed. “Naw, man, I’m just in a good mood. It’s a beautiful day, there’s a new episode of _Dog Cops_ this week, and in a couple days I finally get to bust up that trafficking ring with my two best friends. Life is good.”

Phil smiled at him, full-out, his eyes crinkling at the corners in the way that Clint loved. “Well, in that case, how can I possibly say no?”

“You can’t,” Clint said, slinging a friendly arm around Phil’s shoulders and steering him down the hall toward the exit. “Just admit defeat now.”

“I suppose, if I must,” Phil said, his voice oddly wistful. Clint gave him a little squeeze.

“You absolutely must,” he said.

_Please let it really work this time_ , he thought _. Let Barney come home safe so Phil and I can stop waiting._

Jasper says that new Thai place is good,” he said out loud.

“Sounds good,” Phil said. “Since you’re buying, I think I want an appetizer.”

“Whatever you want, Phil,” Clint said, maybe letting himself sound a little too sincere for the moment, but whatever. Phil knew the score. “Whatever you want.”

* * *

 

 

**May 16, 2009**

**SHIELD Field Office**

**Atlantic City, New Jersey**

“Wow, Nat,” Clint said, as soon as he stepped into the break room to get his supper. “Your hair looks really… big.”

Woo, who’d entered the room just ahead of him, took two large steps to the side, and Clint realized that might not have sounded complementary.

“I don’t mean in a bad way!” he added hastily. “Just, um. Different. Than usual.” He looked more closely. “Wait, is that spray tan?”

She threw a pickle at him, beaning him right between the eyes. He caught it; no need to waste a pickle. “It’s bronzer, Clint,” she said, already using the faint New Jersey accent she’d be using for the op. “And the whole look is calibrated based on DiMarco’s previous hookups, so blame his taste if you aren’t a fan, not mine.”

“Of course not,” Clint said, wandering over to where the sandwich platters were set up. “Your taste is perfect, everyone knows you’re like the classiest person in SHIELD. Well, you and Phil.” He shoved the pickle into his mouth so that he could use both hands to make his sandwich, slurping a little so the juice wouldn’t run down his chin. Hey, nobody ever tried to say _Clint_ was classy.

He heard a strangled sound to his right and turned to see Phil apparently choking on a bite of sandwich. He dropped what he was doing and leaped over to help, only to skid to a halt as Phil held up a hand, taking a sip of his drink and swallowing hard.

“I’m fine,” he said, after his throat was clear.

Clint opened his mouth to reply and dropped his pickle. He looked down at it sadly. Five second rule? But everyone was looking at him now. “Aw, pickle.”

“How are you a world-class spy,” Woo muttered.

“Get your food, Clint,” Phil said, his voice still a little rough from coughing. “Final gear check’s in half an hour.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint said, shooting him a grin and a cheeky little salute.

“I’m not your boss, Clint.”

“Nah, you just do everything _like_ a boss.” Clint finished assembling his sandwich, grabbed some chips and a can of pop, and went over to sit next to Phil. Phil picked up the uneaten pickle from his own plate and put it onto Clint’s. Clint grinned at him, the smile feeling wide and goofy on his face. One day—hopefully one day soon—Phil would do something like that and Clint would lean right over and kiss him for it.

“Eat,” Phil said, so Clint did.

They all ate quickly, without much conversation; everyone was starting to get into their mission headspaces. As they each finished, they went to the staging area to gear up and run through the last checklists.

Clint was the last one in, having decided that he was hungry enough for a second sandwich. His stomach tended to get loud when he was hungry, and it would just be stupid to end up getting caught because he hadn’t had enough to eat before the op.

(It had happened once, when he’d still been new to SHIELD and trying to show that he was worth keeping around. Phil hadn’t been mad, had just shrugged and said “It could happen to anyone, Barton, just bad luck,” but then the next time they’d been sent out together, he’d eyed Clint’s rapidly-emptying plate and put another serving on it without saying a word.)

Natasha had finished getting dressed and was conferring with Evgeni from Wardrobe about the various secrets hidden in her jewelry, purse, and shoes. Clint and Jimmy Woo had both already been wearing their infiltration clothes, all-black with no jingly buckles or zippers to make noise, but there was a table set out for them with masks and lock picks, knockout gas grenades, gloves, and a table of arcane electronic gadgets that Woo would use to hack the security system, as well as several handheld scanners that were capable of scanning documents even in the near-dark. Clint started checking over his kit, then glanced over to the side to where Phil was and fumbled a set of lock picks, dropping them onto the table with a clatter.

Phil looked up. “Something wrong?”

“Nah, just, um. Slipped. Sorry.”

“Let me know if we need a different set,” Phil said, turning back to his own table.

“Sure,” Clint said, but he’d already forgotten what he was agreeing to. “You look. Casual.”

He heard Natasha snort, but didn’t look away from Phil. Phil was wearing jeans. Not skinny jeans, just your standard classic cut, but they were pulled snug across Phil’s ass and thighs in a way that his normal suit pants never were. Or were they? Was this what the suit coats were hiding all this time?

Phil half-turned, and Clint bit back another stupid comment at the black v-neck tee that stretched over his broad chest. He could see a little bit of hair peeking out of the collar, how was that even fair?

“I considered the three-piece Brioni,” Phil said, his eyes sparkling behind—sweet Jesus—his black-framed glasses. The silvery stubble that had read as “end of a long work day” when Phil had been wearing half his suit and his tie loose at dinner now looked more like something you’d see on a model in a magazine. Clint was doomed. “But I didn’t think it would exactly fit in with the ambiance at Jackpot Charlie’s.”

“Of course,” Clint said. “I mean. I know that. I just—you just. You got dressed fast.” He stopped himself from facepalming by the skin of his teeth, which was just as well, because he’d picked the lock picks up again and it wouldn’t be fun to stab himself in the eye with them.

Phil raised an eyebrow. “I’ve had many years of practice,” he said, deadpan.

A pang of love and want went through Clint’s chest like one of his own arrows, and it took every bit of his self control to laugh and agree and turn back to his gear and definitely not cross the room to Phil and kiss the hell out of him for being ridiculous and perfect.

Soon. If there was any justice in the world, _soon_.

They ran through the final checks. Sitwell and Burke were already tailing DiMarco, and another team was planting a getaway car for the infiltration team a few blocks away from the house. Natasha would go back to Phil in the van once she was finished, while Clint and Jimmy would turn their jackets inside out so they looked less obviously criminal and walk casually down the street to their getaway car, then meet back at the field office for debrief. It was the kind of mission they’d all done many times before. Clint even managed not to get too distracted when Phil shrugged on a battered brown leather jacket that molded itself lovingly over his biceps.

Well. He mostly managed.

Once they got confirmation from DiMarco’s tail where he was headed—parabolic microphones were a marvelous thing—they headed out, all piling into the ops van for the short trip to the bar. Phil went in first, claiming a seat at the bar that gave him good sightlines for the whole place, between his eyes and the mirrored wall behind the bar, reflecting the patrons as well as a rainbow assortment of liquor bottles. Phil’s glasses were streaming full audio and video back to the van, a new technology that SHIELD was perfecting. The glasses replaced a traditional comm unit, having sensitive microphones built in and bone conduction speakers in the earpieces that transmitted to the wearer.

“I’m in position,” Phil murmured into his beer. “Everything looks good from here. How’s the feed?”

“AV quality is high, sir,” Woo replied. “Recording in progress, data stream buffered and holding. Black Widow is en route.”

Clint watched the feed in fascination as Phil and Woo ran over a few tests. It was a little queasy-making, watching it bounce and move as Phil moved his head, but kind of fascinating too; the closest, Clint thought, that he’d ever come to seeing the world through Phil’s eyes.

“I’m pulling up outside the bar,” Natasha’s voice came across the mission feed. “Status?”

“Backup’s in place,” Clint said. “ETA on DiMarco is twelve minutes.”

“Good,” she said. “I’m going in.”

“Break a leg,” Clint said, and got no answer save a little snort. He clicked over to Phil’s frequency. “Widow’s on her way in,” he said. “ETA on the mark is twelve minutes.”

The image on the monitors dipped as Phil nodded in acknowledgement. He watched in the mirror as Natasha came in, heading to the opposite end of the bar and immediately getting several offers of drinks. According to the dossier, DiMarco usually went for women that other men were paying attention to, so she picked an offer to accept and proceeded to flirt casually with him in her put-on accent. Phil nursed his beer, splitting his attention between Natasha and the door.

Eleven minutes later, Sitwell’s team called in, and Clint opened channels to Nat and Phil. “Mark incoming,” he said. Natasha tapped an acknowledgement on her comm, disguising it as fiddling with her earring, and Phil gave another tiny nod. “It’s showtime.”

Phil was far too much of a professional to turn around and watch the entrance, but the mirrored wall behind the bar showed it very well. Watching Phil’s feed on the monitor, Clint could see a tiny ripple of movement cross Phil’s body, situational awareness kicking into high gear, and his eyes looked big and blue behind the glasses as he watched the door’s reflection in the mirror. Just as DiMarco walked in, Clint could hear Natasha laughing in the other feed, a rich, throaty sound perfectly calculated to draw attention. On Phil’s feed, Clint saw DiMarco’s head swing in her direction. He paused, but then shook his head a little, looking around the bar. Clint felt his stomach lurch when he seemed to fix on a blonde sitting a few stools down from Phil. Shit.

It wasn’t that he didn’t think Natasha could distract DiMarco from another woman. It was just that poaching someone else’s pickup wasn’t exactly the best way to stay under the radar. There had been an Incident in Boston, once. Hair-pulling had been involved.

Well, and a shit-ton of wine coolers. But still.

DiMarco came up to the bar between Phil and the blonde. Phil glanced over casually, and DiMarco caught his eye and smiled; the hair on the back of Clint’s neck stood up, his instincts shrieking that things might be about to get complicated.

“Hey,” DiMarco said. “How’s it going?”

“Can’t complain,” Phil said, sipping his beer. “You?”

DiMarco leaned an elbow on the bar, putting his other hand on his hip. Phil’s video feed tilted a little, and Clint could imagine the look on his face, mild and courteous, the slight interrogative angle of his head inviting DiMarco to say whatever he wanted to say.

“Well,” DiMarco said, leaning forward. “I’d say it’s starting to look up.” He stuck out a hand. “I’m Vinnie.”

Clint could hear Phil draw a tiny, startled breath, and then he set down his beer and shook DiMarco’s hand. “Phil.”

“Holy shit,” Woo said. “Holy shit. Is he—is he trying to pick up _Coulson?_ ”

Clint bit back his first response, which was “he better not be,” and his second, which was “of course he is, why wouldn’t he?” and said, “I think he might be.”

“Shit, there was nothing in the dossier about him picking up _dudes!_ ” Woo was starting to sound a bit hysterical; good thing his mic wasn’t currently live.

“I haven’t seen you around here before,” DiMarco was saying to Phil. He was wearing a red silk shirt with one more button undone than good taste would warrant.

“I’m in town on business,” Phil told him.

“ _Only_ business?” DiMarco leaned a little closer.

“Sleazebag,” Clint muttered, his fingers curling into fists. He’d never noticed before what a punchable face Vinnie Junior had.

“Well,” Phil said, in his _I-might-be-convinced-to-let-you-turn-in-your-AAR-late-this-time-Agent_ tone. “I suppose I wouldn’t be opposed to mixing business with pleasure, should the opportunity arise.”

Clint’s dick twitched in his pants, his imagination instantly filling in a number of other things he’d like to hear Phil say in the same way, most of them having to do with pants and the rapid disposal thereof. Shit, this was _not the time_.

“I can’t believe he walked past the Widow to make time with _Coulson_ ,” Woo muttered.

“Shut up, Jimmy,” Clint snapped. “If Coulson has to do the distraction, that means he won’t be able to run ops; we need to think about contingencies.”

“Right, yeah,” Woo said. “Um, okay. Could we just switch them out? Let Romanoff run ops?”

“Maybe,” Clint said. “That’ll be our fallback position, but if possible let’s wait for a signal from Coulson.” DiMarco had progressed to the drink-buying portion of the evening, and Phil was toasting him with a glass of top-shelf bourbon. Phil was looking at DiMarco, not at the mirror, so Clint couldn’t see Phil’s face. He wondered what expression Phil was wearing, that had DiMarco hanging on his every word.

“So, Phil,” DiMarco said. “Would you call yourself an… adventurous type of guy?”

The video feed dipped a little as Phil sipped his drink. When he looked back up at DiMarco, his eyes were fixed on—at least as well as Clint could estimate from the angle—Phil’s mouth. Clint had excellent visual recall, and his memory quickly conjured up an image of Phil’s lips, a little wet, leaving a tiny smudge on the rim of a crystal tumbler.

He really hoped he got a chance to punch Vinnie DiMarco right in his smug mouth before this op was over. Maybe when they finally raided his office. That would be awesome.

“That depends,” Phil said, “on what you mean by adventurous. I enjoy… variety, but not foolishness.” He somehow managed to make the word _variety_ sound like something absolutely filthy, and Clint could see DiMarco’s eyes slide shut for a moment, as though he was imagining every possible thing that Phil might mean.

“My wife sent me out on a mission tonight,” DiMarco said.

“Oh?” Phil sounded like someone had asked him what kind of coffee roast he preferred, polite and untouchable. DiMarco licked his lips; Phil was keeping him on the line, and the cooler he played it, the hungrier DiMarco seemed to get.

Clint shifted, trying to pin his dick between his thighs. He’d spend a nice couple of hours later remembering the smooth purr in Phil’s voice at his leisure; right now was _not the time_.

“Yeah,” DiMarco said. “See, we like to play a little game, and it’s more fun when we can find new friends to play with us. And tonight, we’re looking for a man with…” his eyes flicked up and down, eyeing Phil blatantly. “Authority.”

“I’m listening.” There was a new note in Phil’s voice, a thread of steel, and Clint swallowed hard at the same time DiMarco did on the video feed.

“She likes to see me… earn it,” DiMarco said, edging closer to Phil. Clint wanted to reach through the video feed and push him away. “On my back, on my knees. However it pleases you.” His hand reached out on the feed, apparently to touch Phil, but Phil kept watching DiMarco’s face. “Does that sound like something you’d enjoy?”

Phil sat back, and the feed moved, looking DiMarco over from head to toe. His pants were very tight, and very shiny. He was looking at Phil halfway like a sad puppy and halfway like he wanted to devour him right there in the bar.

“Why not?” Phil said at last, his voice thrumming with promise. “Sounds like fun.”

“Excellent,” DiMarco said.

“I need to call my business partner and let him know I won’t be meeting him for drinks later,” Phil said. Clint could see Phil’s hand come up, wrapping around the back of DiMarco’s neck, and then oh ew ew _ew,_ Clint had an extreme close-up view of DiMarco’s face as Phil kissed him _right there in the bar_. DiMarco’s mouth was wet and shiny when Phil pulled back, and had Clint mentioned that he kind of wanted to punch it? A lot.

“Stay here and finish your drink while I step out to make my call,” Phil told DiMarco. “Show me how well you can behave.”

DiMarco swallowed visibly. “Yes, sir,” he said, his smarmy voice gone breathy.

“Holy fuck,” Woo said. “Coulson has brass ones.”

“You say that like it’s a surprise,” Clint said, scowling. “Look alive, he’ll be calling in any minute.”

They watched the video feed move out of the bar, around the corner into a blind alley they’d previously scoped.

“Coulson to Control.”

“Control here,” Clint said, managing to make his voice sound remarkably normal and not like he was on the verge of getting out of the van to go either deck DiMarco for daring to put his hands on Phil or just pull Phil out of his clothes and show him how well-behaved _Clint_ could be. “I have you on a private line.”

Phil sighed. “Well. It’s fair to say this is a contingency we didn’t plan for,” he said, sounding flustered. “If DiMarco has picked up men before, it was at least nine months ago, but I’ll be having a word with the analysts all the same.”

“I have Widow on the line,” Woo told Clint. “She’s still holding court in the bar, keeping an eye on DiMarco. He’s right where Coulson left him.”

“Widow is keeping an eye out, we’re good for now,” Clint told Phil.

“This isn’t at all in line with his previous choices, even if you discount gender,” Phil said, and now he just sounded pissed; at the intel failure, Clint thought. “All the women he picked up were close in age to him, fashionable. He’s twenty-six, for God’s sake, I could practically be his father.”

“You could _not.”_

“Clint.”

“I mean, maybe _technically_ , if you got an early start,” Clint said. “But I’ve seen his actual father, remember? Quadruple-bypass guy? He’s like eighty.” Clint paused, thinking about Phil’s outfit. “I mean, you’re wearing your glasses. Probably you look like his hot professor from college or something.”

“I’m not sure if I should be flattered or dismayed at that comparison,” Phil said, but the tension was easing out of his voice, and Clint gave himself a mental pat on the back.

“Definitely flattered,” Clint assured Phil, resisting the urge to start humming “Hot For Teacher” because he was a professional.

“Either way, I suppose there’s nothing else for it,” Phil said with a sigh. “I’m going to have to take Widow’s role on the distraction team and try to keep the DiMarcos occupied long enough for Infiltration to get the documents.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his tone was oddly formal. “Agent Barton, I know that you’re prepped to go inside the house, but I would be grateful if you would consider running ops and letting Agent Romanoff take your place on the infiltration team.”

Clint froze, running Phil’s words back to make sure that he’d actually just heard Phil ask Clint to watch while Phil had a honeypot threesome with a pair of smugglers.

“Um,” Clint said. “I mean, are you sure that’s what you want? I know you run ops for Widow on honeypots all the time.”

“And I have the utmost faith in her professionalism,” Phil said, sounding, if anything, even more awkward; the smooth motherfucker who strung DiMarco along in the bar might as well have been from another planet. “It’s just… I know this doesn’t make any logical sense, but I don’t feel comfortable with anyone but you seeing me like this.” The video feed moved up, as though Phil was tipping back his head to look at the stars. “After all, once you’ve seen a man scraping yellow slime out of his ass in a decontamination shower, what mysteries remain?”

Clint found himself smiling as he realized what Phil was saying. Phil didn’t want anyone else to see him being… exposed. Intimate. Phil trusted Clint to witness something personal and vulnerable and possibly embarrassing, to keep watch for Phil, to keep him safe. Clint wondered whether Phil would get naked; he must at least know it was a possibility. He must be willing to trust Clint with that, too.

“Sure, Phil,” he said, and if his voice was a little too warm to be professional, well, the footage of this op was going to be classified to hell and gone anyway. “Don’t worry, I’ve got your back. Widow’s probably better than I am for infiltration, anyway.”

Phil took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. Put me on ops for a second."

Clint flipped a switch. "Live on ops."

"All right, Agents, here's how this will go," Phil said. "We’ll run the op the same as originally planned, but with me in Widow’s place, Widow in Barton’s, and Barton in mine. I’ll keep the glasses active as long as I can since I don’t have a standard comm on me. I don’t have any tranquilizers, so I’m going to have to carry through on the liaison at least long enough to keep the DiMarcos from getting suspicious, so infiltration team should work as fast as they can.”

“Roger that,” Clint said. “As soon as you leave, I’ll have the van at the rendezvous to pick you up.” He switched them back. "We're back on your private channel, Phil."

“Well,” Phil said, and drew an unsteady breath. “Wish me luck, I guess.” He was doing remarkably well, considering, but Clint still wished he was there in the alley so he could give Phil a hug or something; having to go undercover without time to prepare was always tricky, even when you weren’t trying to entrap someone with your sexual wiles.

“Break a leg,” Clint told Phil, the same thing he always told Nat before an undercover. He tried to put all his confidence and trust and admiration in his voice, and he thought he came pretty close, because Phil chuckled a little, a lot less tense.

“Hopefully not literally,” he said. “Coulson out.”

Woo passed the new information to Natasha, while Clint watched Phil’s feed as he went back to the bar, back up to DiMarco, stepping right up into his personal space.

“Very good,” Phil said, his voice thrumming with approval. He sounded like hot melted sex on toast. It was going to be a very long mission, Clint could already tell. (But Phil didn’t want anyone but Clint to hear him talking that way.)

“Ready to go?” DiMarco asked, then added, “sir?”

“Lead the way,” Phil said, and followed him out of the bar. As soon as DiMarco’s car was on the road, Woo sent the extraction signal to Nat, who skillfully and quickly divested herself of her admirers and appeared at the van in less than five minutes. Woo started driving as soon as she was inside.

“Well,” Natasha said, skimming out of her sparkly tube top and holding out her hand. Clint pulled off his shirt and jacket and handed them to her, leaving him in just his wifebeater. “I think that’s the first time _that’s_ ever happened. How refreshing.”

“Phil didn’t seem that happy,” Clint said.

She inspected her lower half. “At least these pants aren’t shiny,” she said. “Hand me the bag under the seat, there, I stashed another pair of shoes.”

He handed it to her.

“And of course Phil didn’t, he buys his own press,” she said, changing her shoes and tying her curls back with a dark bandana. “It’ll be good for him to take a break from all that g-man nothing-to-see-here bullshit and stretch his wings in the field a little. He’ll be fine.”

Clint couldn’t help glancing over at the monitors. Phil was in the passenger seat of the car, currently making some sort of innuendo about gear shifts. “Um, Nat?”

Natasha grabbed his gear bag and started rummaging around, checking where he’d stowed everything. “What?”

“I’ve never run ops for a honeypot before,” Clint said. “Um, what do I do? I mean, is there anything special I—”

“Everyone has different preferences,” Natasha said, moving the lock picks to the other side of the bag. “In general, try not to talk unless there’s a development he needs to know about; it can be difficult keeping in the right mental space if someone’s chattering in your ear. Otherwise, treat it like any other op. You know Phil, you’ll be able to tell if he needs something from you.”

“Okay,” Clint said. On the monitor, DiMarco’s car was slowing down to turn into his neighborhood, the van just a few minutes behind. “Okay, I can do that.”

Natasha finished her preparations and slung the gear bag over her shoulder. “You’ll both do great,” she said. “And then we’ll get to go raid the facility and you’ll get to shoot some bad guys.”

“I’m looking forward to it.” On the monitor, Phil was pulling up into the driveway. Clint clicked over to the general channel. “Distraction team is entering the house. Infiltration team ETA three minutes.”

Nat leaned over and kissed the top of Clint’s head as Woo parked the van. “Break a leg,” she said, and then slipped out of the van, setting the perimeter sensors as she went. Clint took a deep breath and flipped to Phil’s channel.

“Infiltration team is en route,” he said. “I’m taking over ops for distraction team. It’s just you and me, Phil.”

On the monitor, he could see the video feed move as Phil gave a tiny nod.

“Just you and me and the scumbags,” Clint muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phil's outfit is based on a real outfit Clark wore, bonus points if you find the pictures I used for reference. :)


	3. "The distraction team will set a honeypot..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil stepped through after DiMarco into a room that looked like a sex dungeon as envisioned by Madonna in 1987.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of smut from here on out, y'all. Like. So much.

DiMarco unlocked the door and ushered Phil inside, re-locking the door behind them. There were low lights burning in the hall, and Clint got an impression of a lot of gilt and overblown crown moldings and some remarkably ugly statues.

“Please, follow me,” DiMarco said. “My wife will meet us downstairs.”

Phil’s feed followed DiMarco through the dimly-lit house to a door next to the kitchen, which he opened to reveal a staircase leading down.

“Underground?” Phil said, sounding a little skeptical.

“We’ve got a playroom,” DiMarco said. “Don’t worry, we have everything you could want.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Phil said, his voice taking on an edge.

“Of course,” DiMarco said. “Here, I’ll show you.”

They went down the basement stairs, which ended in a small finished area, something like a foyer. To the left, a door was ajar, and DiMarco opened it more fully.

“There you are,” a new voice said. A woman; Jennifer DiMarco, presumably. DiMarco—Vinnie—hurried through the door, and Phil stepped through after him into a room that looked like a sex dungeon as envisioned by Madonna in 1987. Phil looked around quickly, his video feed showing a rack of sex toys, a shelf full of bottles and boxes (Clint spied at least one bottle of Astroglide and a box of Trojans, which was a relief), and a tangled bunch of straps that might be a sex swing before he focused on the center of the room. A crystal chandelier with pink light bulbs cast its Pepto-Bismol glow over a king-sized bed with an elaborate wrought-iron frame, made up with a leopard-print comforter, turned down to reveal what looked like black satin sheets. Jennifer DiMarco was sitting on the bed, propped up on a mountain of pillows, wearing a short, sheer black robe trimmed with feathers.

The whole thing looked like it had been lifted wholesale from some kind of late-night pay-channel soft-core porno. Not that Clint would know about those. He just… hotels.

“Phil,” Vinnie said, “may I introduce my wife, Jenny?”

“Vinnie and Jenny?” Clint said out loud in the van. “You’ve _got_ to be kidding me.”

Phil coughed, and Clint realized he still had his mic on. “Oops, sorry,” he whispered, and killed his outgoing feed.

“Pleased to meet you, Jenny,” Phil said, moving forward a few steps. “Your husband certainly… piqued my interest.”

“That’s his job,” Jenny said, eyeing Phil like she was a hungry bear and he was a tasty side of beef. It kind of pissed Clint off. Not that Phil wasn’t tasty—of course he was—but he was so much more than that. Lusting after Phil when you didn’t even know him, the dorky as well as the dashing? That was like, like going to McDonald’s for salads—just missing the point.

Clint took a deep breath and reminded himself that Phil was on a mission, not an actual date. Mission mission mission.

“I’d like to hear more about the way you… play,” Phil said, and his video feed made a slow trip over Jenny DiMarco, pausing noticeably right around her tits.

She probably spelled her name “Jenni,” Clint decided spitefully. She probably dotted the I with a heart.

He might be taking this whole thing a tiny bit too seriously.

“Why don’t you tell our new friend how things are, Vinnie,” Jenni said, voice overly-sweet.

“I’m a naughty boy,” Vinnie said, and Phil’s video feed swung around to one side and then down, settling on where Vinnie DiMarco was kneeling on what Clint really hoped wasn’t a real leopard-skin rug, his eyes flicking hungrily between Phil and his wife. “I have a hard time remembering how to treat a lady.”

“Is that so?” Phil’s voice was low and dangerous. It was dead sexy, but Clint could hear a thread of anger strumming underneath; the human trafficking that had paid for most of the house Phil was standing inside would give DiMarco’s sex banter an unpleasant edge for him.

“Yeah,” DiMarco said. “I always forget, so I have to find people to show me what to do.”

“I see.” Phil looked over at Jenni, and then back to Vinnie. “And when you find these people, what happens then?”

“Then they show me how to please her,” he said. “I have to pay attention, so I’ll learn it right.”

Phil looked over at Jenni. “And what happens after that?”

“That depends,” she said. “I give him a little quiz, and if he’s learned his lesson well, he gets to come.”

“And if not?”

“Then he gets to sleep on the floor with his hard-on for company, so he’ll learn better next time.”

Vinnie whimpered. Phil didn’t look at him.

“Am I to understand you’re hoping I’ll teach Vinnie his next lesson?” he asked, his tone of voice mild.

“Not… exactly,” Jenni said. “See, Vinnie’s been doing real well at his lessons lately. So well that I think he’s ready to move to… more advanced studies.”

“Oh?”

Clint could imagine exactly the politely inquiring eyebrow that Phil was using on her, and the mental image was way hotter than it had any right to be.

“Vinnie needs to learn to please our special guests,” Jenni said. “No matter what kind of guests they are. I want him to learn to please _you_.”

“And you?” Phil turned to look at Vinnie without missing a beat. “Is that what you want to learn? How to please a man?”

Vinnie looked down, biting his lip.

“I’ll have the truth,” Phil snapped, and Vinnie looked up, his eyes wide.

“Yes, sir,” he said, and it was hard to tell in the pink light, but Clint thought he might have blushed. “I mean, um, Phil.”

“You may call me sir,” Phil said, as though he were offering Vinnie a treat. From the shaky little breath he took, Vinnie seemed to think so.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “I… I’ve always wanted to learn, sir. But I couldn’t. My father—I just couldn’t.”

“I see.” Phil’s voice got softer, warmer. “Then it’s very kind of Jenni to give you this chance.” His hand entered the video feed, running gently through Vinnie’s hair.

Clint reminded himself that Phil was acting, and he didn’t really like DiMarco. Also, Vinnie’s hair was so full of product it looked crunchy, and that couldn’t be pleasant for Phil. Whenever Clint styled _his_ hair, he made sure only to use stuff that kept it touchably soft. Not that Clint’s hair was at all relevant to this situation, but still.

“Yes, sir,” Vinnie said, looking up at Phil.

“Obviously, you need someone to take you in hand,” Phil said, then turned to look at Jenni again. “I appreciate the opportunity.”

“I think we’ll all enjoy it,” she said.

“Before we go much further, a few points of order,” Phil said, and Clint was glad that he had his mic turned off, because he had heard Phil say that exact thing at a meeting the week before, and nothing on earth could have kept him from cracking up laughing at hearing it again in such different surroundings. He laughed right through the DiMarcos’ response, and was still hiccuping a little when Phil started talking again.

“Condoms—or other suitable barriers—are non-negotiable,” Phil said, and paused until they both agreed. “What is your safeword?” he asked Vinnie.

“Red.”

The video feed dipped as Phil nodded. “Good,” he said. “That’ll go for both of you. ‘Red’ to stop, ‘yellow’ if you need to pause or re-adjust, ‘green’ if all is well.”

“I don’t need a safeword,” Jenni said.

“Everyone needs a safeword,” Phil said firmly. “Or this goes no further.”

It was just like Phil, making sure everyone would be taken care of even when they were literally criminals he was in the middle of deceiving, Clint thought with a pang. Jenni didn’t know how good she had it—or, well, maybe she did, a little; he could see her eyes landing greedily somewhere around Phil’s midsection. He really wished Phil would look down, or at a mirror, so that Clint could see what she was looking at.

“All right,” Jenni said.

“Good,” Phil said. “So, any other questions or concerns?” He looked at them both, and they both shook their heads. “Words, please,” he said to Vinnie, and Vinnie swallowed visibly at his tone.

“No, sir, no questions.”

“Well, then,” Phil said, dropping his voice into a lower register that sent a shiver up Clint’s spine. “Let’s begin.”

Sure that both DiMarcos were now in place for the duration, Clint carefully opened the infiltration team’s comm channel. “Infiltration team, this is Control. You have a go,” he said.

“Roger, Control,” Nat replied. “We’ll let you know as soon as we’re clear.”

“Break a leg,” he said, and shut down the channel to the whisper of an amused chuckle.

On the video feed, Phil had moved to sit down; on the edge of the bed, Clint thought, from the angle. “Take off your clothes,” he ordered, and it was unquestionably an order; Clint had to hold back the thoughtless instinct to start stripping down himself. “Make it good; show us what you’re offering us.”

Vinnie stood, revealing a painful-looking bulge in the crotch of his tight pants. “Yes, sir,” he said, and he sounded way too cranked up for as little as they’d done so far; he was obviously desperate, and if he wasn’t mixed up in a terrorist-finding crime ring, Clint might have felt sorry for him. He was looking at Phil like Phil was some kind of superhero, or like a movie star or something. It wasn’t that Clint didn’t agree, but Clint knew all the reasons _why_ Phil was amazing; as far as the DiMarcos knew, Phil was just a hot guy they’d picked up in a bar.

The first hot guy they’d _ever_ picked up, because—as Clint now remembered from the case file—Vincent DiMarco, Senior was a raging homophobe, who donated generously to anti-gay groups and whose employees were all either straight or fired on slim pretexts suspiciously soon after he found out they weren’t.

Vinnie started unbuttoning his shirt with visibly trembling hands. Clint wondered just how many years of sweaty fantasies had gone into the making of this night, and felt a wave of reluctant sympathy.

Clint’s own upbringing hadn’t been what you’d call traditional, but at least he’d never had to be afraid because of who he wanted to sleep with. Jenni DiMarco was the daughter of one of Vincent Senior’s “business” connections, if he was remembering the dossier right; Clint wondered how long she and Vinnie had known each other. His imagination spun a story for him: two queer mob kids finding each other, secret fantasies whispered in the dark. Had their previous pickups been for Jenni what this one obviously was for her husband? The first time Vinnie had brought home an Amber or an Emily, had she been overcome with want like Vinnie was now?

Damn it. Clint hated it when he started feeling sorry for the marks. It just made everything more difficult. He resolutely put his wandering attention back on the feed.

“That’s it,” Phil was telling Vinnie, and his voice had gone coaxing, soothing. “Good boy, just like that.”

Vinnie whimpered, but kept undressing; Clint couldn’t help but be impressed at how good Phil was at this. Every agent who went undercover got training in what they jokingly called “sex ed,” a sort of crash-course seminar in a wide variety of sexual practices and kinks, but Clint had spent most of his rotation cracking jokes and doodling dicks on things. While he’d learned what he needed, he certainly wouldn’t have done as well in Phil’s place. Phil had natural authority—he always had—but this was… something else.

Something stupidly hot. This scenario should be funny, or at least awkward—Clint was sitting in a white panel van with a fake company name painted on it, literally watching his—Phil—seduce a pair of marks on a leopard-print bedspread under a pink lamp. There should have been nothing sexy about it, but Phil was—

“He’s behaving beautifully,” Phil said, looking over at Jenni. “You’ve trained him well.”

Phil was so fucking sincere about it that it made the whole thing seem real, and Clint couldn’t help the way it lit him up to watch.

On screen, Jenni sat up straighter, the look of uncertainty on her face turning to smug pride. “I’ve worked very hard at it.”

“It shows.” Phil looked back over to Vinnie, who had his shirt all the way open but still tucked in; he looked like the cover of a Jersey Shore-themed romance novel.

Clint got bored a lot on missions, okay?

“That’s a pretty shirt,” Phil said, “but I’d like to see the pretty boy underneath it, please.”

Vinnie ducked his head, but pulled the shirt off, then folded it up and set it on a black velvet chaise nearby.

“Good boy, Vinnie,” Jenni said. “Keep going.”

There was an art to getting out of tight pants gracefully, and Vinnie DiMarco had never learned it. He did well enough at first, undoing the fly and pushing it open just enough for the bulge of his eager cock, covered with some kind of silky underwear, to spill out; but once he got the pants halfway down his hips he started to struggle, shooting worried little looks at Phil.

“Come hold on to the bedpost,” Phil said, because he was constitutionally incapable of being an asshole when someone was trying their best. “We’d like to see you better.”

Vinnie looked relieved, and shuffled over to obey. With the aid of the bedpost, he was able to wriggle out of his pants, which he then folded up and put on the same chaise where he’d left his shirt.

“Such a thoughtful, tidy boy,” Phil told Jenni, who beamed at him.

“Do your underwear too while you’re over there, Vinnie,” she said, and he hesitated for a few seconds, his hands on the waistband, before skinning out of his black briefs and adding them to the pile. He stood there uncertainly with his back to the bed, hands smoothing over the pile of clothes. His body was pretty nice, Clint supposed, if you liked that gym-rat look.

“Come on over and let us look at you,” Phil said, his voice gentle.

Vinnie obeyed, watching Phil with an expression that was somehow worried and lustful at the same time. The video feed moved over him, slowly, lingering a little on Vinnie’s long, slim erection, and then on the tangle of dark hair on his chest, before settling on his face.

“Very nice,” Phil murmured, and then Clint heard the sound of fingers snapping, and Vinnie sank to his knees in front of the bed.

“Very nice indeed.” Clint could see Phil’s denim-clad knees, and Vinnie kneeling in between them. Phil’s hand entered the frame and ran over Vinnie’s hair again. Vinnie closed his eyes, breathing fast. Phil turned to face Jenni, who had moved closer to him on the edge of the bed, her bare legs tucked up underneath her. “I’d bet he’s learned to please you very well, hasn’t he?”

She smiled. “Yes, he has,” she said, then turned to look at Vinnie. “You do so well, baby.”

“I’d love to see it,” Phil said. “Before we start him learning something new.”

“Mmm.” She reached down, and Phil turned to watch her bop Vinnie’s nose affectionately. “Would you like that, Vin? Wanna show off for Phil, show him how good you are?”

He nodded eagerly, then turned his face to kiss her hand. “Yes, please.”

Phil stood, his feed turning toward Jenni again. “However you’re most comfortable,” he said. “Would you rather I observe quietly, or would you like… commentary?”

“Give him a few minutes to get in the swing of things,” Jenni said. “Then you can tell him what a good boy he’s being.”

“Of course,” Phil replied, then looked down to where Vinnie was still kneeling and offered him a hand up. He pulled him effortlessly to his feet, then Clint was treated to another extreme close-up of Vinnie’s face as Phil kissed him again, not long but (judging by the sounds) firm. Anyway, exciting enough to leave Vinnie practically cross-eyed after he was done.

At least Vinnie seemed to appreciate Phil properly.

As Phil was moving aside, his feed turning toward the bed where Jenni was situating herself back on her pile of pillows, Clint heard the infiltration team’s comms channel click open.

“Control here,” he said softly.

The line let out a series of beeps in Morse code, generated by the person at the other end tapping; standard protocol when an operative needed to stay silent but still pass a message on.

TEAM IN PLACE PAPERS LOCATED PHASE 2 BEGINS

Phase 2 was the process of photographing the evidence and putting everything back where they’d found it. Phase 3 was egress, also known as “getting the hell out of Dodge.”

“Roger that.” The line clicked shut again.

Clint returned his attention to Phil’s feed. He was standing off to the side, a few feet away from the bed, his attention, or at least his sightline, fixed on the spot where Vinnie DiMarco was currently engaged in eating his wife’s pussy like, Clint had to admit, a complete pro. Apparently his “lessons” weren’t just a kinky role-play thing.

Clint sent the soft click that would alert Phil to an incoming message, so he wouldn’t be startled when Clint said something. “Phase 2 is active,” Clint said, as quietly as he could. Phil gave a slow nod.

“Very good work,” he said, and Vinnie moaned against his wife’s thigh, thinking the words were aimed at him.

Clint knew better.

He shut the line down again, not wanting to distract Phil any more than necessary. Phil needed a few progress reports so he could judge how long he needed to keep the DiMarcos occupied in their basement; it wouldn’t be safe for him to… finish… until the infiltration team was out of the house and preferably out of the neighborhood altogether. Nat and Jimmy would work as fast as they could—which was pretty damn fast—but a lot depended on how many documents there were. It wasn’t like you could just stick a USB drive into a file folder full of paper and download a copy, after all.

Come to think of it, that was probably why DiMarco kept his documentation analog in the first place.

On the surveillance feed, Jenni DiMarco came with a wail, thighs clenching around her husband’s head, pulling the sheets half off the bed with her clutching hands.

“Oh, such good work,” Phil said, and the feed came closer to the bed, showed Phil’s hand stroking down Vinnie’s spine. Vinnie made a high, uncertain noise, muffled by his position but still clear.

“You’ve obviously taught him very well,” Phil told Jenni. “Do you think he’d be that good using his mouth on me?”

“He’s never sucked cock before,” Jenni said, sitting up and settling Vinnie’s head in her lap. “But he’ll certainly try.”

Phil threaded his fingers through Vinnie’s hair and pulled. “Is that what you’d like?”

Vinnie moaned, his back arching as he craned his neck to look up at Phil. “Yes,” he said, his mouth slack and wet, his eyes blown dark. “Please, sir, yes, I want to, if—”

“Yes?”

“I don’t—I haven’t—”

“Shh,” Phil said, and he let go of Vinnie’s hair to run his hand softly over the back of his neck. “I know, this is all new to you. Don’t worry, we’ll teach you what to do.”

Jenni’s hand entered the video, running through Vinnie’s hair. _Crunch crunch crunch_ , Clint thought sourly, even though Vinnie’s hair was now falling in exertion-damp curls over his forehead.

“I’ll teach you, babe,” Jenni said, and Vinnie shivered, burying his face in her thigh.

Phil’s feed moved to show her face. “Where do you want me?” Phil asked, and the combination of his polite tone and Jenni’s tousled hair and sex-flushed skin somehow combined to make the whole thing seem even more absurdly filthy than it already had. Clint shifted in his seat, the half-erection he’d been trying to ignore—because he was _working_ , and it was _not appropriate_ —making itself known again.

It wasn’t like Clint hadn’t seen people having sex before. When your game was infiltration, you wound up observing way more sex than Clint would have ever guessed before he went into the business; people got distracted, and it was a great time to try to steal their stuff, or plant other stuff, or sneak by them and blow up an evil lair. And sure, sometimes it was pretty hot, but Clint had never had this much trouble compartmentalizing before.

He knew why, he thought, watching Phil’s feed swing around as he settled into position, propped up on the pile of pillows against the headboard of the bed. Clint had never had trouble compartmentalizing before because he’d never been watching _Phil_ before. It wasn’t just that Phil was hot, or that he knew him, or even that he loved him; Clint had backed Natasha up on honeypots before, and all those things applied to her, too. No, it was that Clint and Phil had something, that there were feelings between them, but everything was still potential. Clint was… he was _jealous_ , embarrassing though it was to admit. Or maybe not jealous, really, but envious. He knew that the DiMarcos weren’t a threat to him, that Phil didn’t feel anything for them no matter how soft his voice or how tender his touch; but it stung that they got this before Clint did, before it was safe for Clint and Phil to let themselves have each other.

On screen, Jenni and Vinnie were kneeling next to each other on the bed, to either side of Phil’s legs—Phil’s bare legs, and how had Clint missed Phil taking his pants off? He was a little surprised that he had, honestly; he’d have thought Phil would stay as dressed as possible in case he had to leave in a hurry. Clint made a mental note to give Phil some extra warning for anything that might result in exfil.

“Get between his legs,” Jenni told her husband, and Clint shivered.

Phil obligingly spread his legs, and Vinnie knelt between his thighs, darting quick little looks between Phil and Jenni.

“Start on top of the underwear,” Jenni said, laying a hand on Vinnie’s arm. “Go as slow as you want, just touch him, get familiar with it.”

Phil looked down his own body, now wearing just a t-shirt and navy blue boxer-briefs, as Vinnie reached out and laid his hand hesitantly on the bulge at Phil’s groin.

“You’ll need to help me out a little,” Phil said, and from the tone of his voice, Clint could imagine the rueful smile on his face. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

It was a classic technique, something you learned in ops training, a way to disarm a mark who could tell you weren’t quite as into them as you were pretending. Clint felt a little smug at this evidence that the DiMarcos were just a job—not that he thought anything different, of course. He knew better than that.

Vinnie smiled nervously. “Anything I can do,” he said quietly, and started stroking Phil through his shorts. He was tentative at first, his touch light, and Phil shifted his hips a little on the bed, an aborted move into the touch.

“Touch him a little harder, baby,” Jenni said, kissing Vinnie’s cheek. “Look, see how he’s pushing up? He likes it, you can give him more.”

“I could take these off,” Phil offered. “Would you like that?”

“Y-yes,” Vinnie said, biting his lip. “Yes, please.”

Clint caught his breath. It wasn’t that he’d never seen Phil naked before—in their line of work, there were a surprising number of opportunities for locker room/clothing theft/decontamination shower encounters—but he’d never seen him naked with _intent_. Regular work-related nudity had an etiquette to it, you weren’t supposed to look.

Clint had very good vision, so he’d stolen more glances than most, but there were still a lot of mysteries he’d like to have solved. Like whether Phil was a shower or a grower. He was no slouch even soft and straight out of a freezing lake in January, and Clint was dying to find out how that translated into more… comfortable circumstances.

Which was why it was so damn frustrating that while Phil was—judging from the way the image jostled—wriggling out of his underwear, he kept his gaze—and therefore his video feed—firmly fixed on Vinnie’s face.

It didn’t help that _Vinnie_ was looking his fill. And a damn fine fill it apparently was, if the greedy, disbelieving shine in his eyes was any indication.

“Wow, Vin,” Jenni said, grinning. “You may be a beginner, but you sure didn’t go for training wheels the first time out.”

“I want—can I,” Vinnie said, stumbling over his words, his eyeline still decidedly fixed on Phil’s cock.

“Condom first,” Phil said, “then be my guest.”

“I hope the ones we have fit,” Jenni said, and oh, seriously? _Seriously?_ Clint really hoped she was joking, because otherwise he was going to expire right there in the surveillance van, and then where would they be?

Vinnie looked like she’d stolen all his hopes and dreams for a minute. Clint almost felt sorry for him, except for how Phil was currently naked in his sex dungeon.

“No, wait, I have some Magnums,” Jenni said. “Because of the blue one, remember?”

“The… blue one?” Phil sounded as puzzled as Clint felt.

“We’ve got a bunch of toys,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “It’s not important. Hold that thought.”

Phil watched—and therefore Clint watched—as she got up, tossing her disheveled curls over her shoulder, and rummaged in a dresser drawer.

“Aha!” she cried out triumphantly, holding them up like the prize at the bottom of the cereal box. “Found ‘em!”

She was still a lot more hair-sprayed and spray-tanned than Clint preferred, and her thick black eyeliner was starting to smear, but as she exchanged delighted grins with her husband, Clint found himself thinking that apart from the criminal empire thing, she wasn’t such a bad kid.

Ugh.

Jenni tore a condom off the strip and handed it to Vinnie, along with a red-and-white bottle. “Strawberry,” she told him. “Use this, the stuff on the condoms tastes nasty.”

“Thanks,” he told her, then concentrated very hard on opening the condom wrapper. Clint could see his arms moving as he leaned forward to actually apply it, but Phil, annoyingly, kept looking at Vinnie’s face. Clint knew he was just probably not crazy about the idea of his dick being a part of the permanent case file, but still. Clint was starting to take it personally.

“Start small,” Phil told Vinnie.

Jenni snorted, then tried to cover it up with a cough.

“What I mean is, don’t push yourself too quickly,” Phil said. “Just do what you can, it’s not a race.”

It was a smart approach, Clint thought. A good way to buy time. He shifted in his seat, and absolutely did not wonder if his and Phil’s first time would be fast and desperate or slow and lingering.

(Soon. Please, please, by any higher power who looks out for secret agents and feds, let it be soon.)

“Use your hands on him,” Jenni said, perching on the bed beside Phil’s hip. “That way you don’t have to worry too much about how much you can take at a time.”

Vinnie bent over, and Clint held his breath as Phil’s feed started to dip, then let out a disappointed groan when all he could see was part of Vinnie’s hand and the top of his head.

“Mmm,” Phil said, the rumble of his voice reverberating through the headset. Clint thought he could feel it in his teeth, his chest, his balls. “That’s good.”

“Watch your teeth,” Jenni said. “Suck on the head, that’s right, he likes it. Keep your hand there so he won’t choke you if he thrusts up.”

“I won’t choke you,” Phil said. “But it’s a good practice. Some people have better control than others.”

Of course Phil was confident he wouldn’t choke anyone with his cock unless he meant to; Phil was nothing if not in control of himself.

Clint wondered if Phil would be amenable to cock-choking on request, and then very firmly stopped himself from wondering further.

Onscreen, Vinnie pulled back with a dirty slurping sound; Clint caught a tantalizing glimpse of Phil’s fat cockhead, wrapped in latex and gleaming wet, peeking out above Vinnie’s fingers.

“What if… what I wanted that, though?” Vinnie asked, sounding at once nervous and defiant. “What if I wanted you to choke me a little?”

Clint actually squeaked, then hurriedly double-checked to make sure his mic was still muted (it was.)

Phil’s hand reached into the frame, cupping Vinnie’s cheek, his thumb brushing over his swollen bottom lip. “I don’t like to play that rough with people I just met,” he said. “I need to work up to it, and that takes a while. But don’t worry, I promise I’ll take good care of you tonight.”

Vinnie leaned into Phil’s hand, his eyes sliding shut. “Fuck me then,” he said, barely above a whisper. “That’s what I want.”

Phil was silent, his thumb stroking over Vinnie’s mouth again, and Vinnie frowned, pulling away and sitting up. Clint bit back a curse as the video feed followed him up, trying very hard not to imagine what _working up to it_ might entail.

“I know what I want!” Vinnie said. “You don’t have to treat me like, like some _virgin._ I’ve done it before!”

“Have you?” Phil asked, and Vinnie flushed.

“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, with Jenni.”

“Ah, I see,” Phil said. “She gives you her cock?” and his voice was going dark again, like that was the best thing he’d ever heard, and Clint felt a sudden urge toward bringing up his own pegging history at the next available opportunity.

Just, you know. For Phil’s information.

“He loves it,” Jenni said, her voice gone a little steely. “He takes it so good, Phil, he won’t disappoint you.”

“Oh, of course he wouldn’t,” Phil agreed instantly. “I never thought he would. I’m just concerned; as you pointed out, I’m not exactly, er, appropriately-sized for a novice. I don’t want to leave him too sore to sit down tomorrow.”

Vinnie moaned, and Clint was right there with him. That sounded pretty amazing.

“I don’t care if you do,” he said. “I don’t care if I am. I want you, please.”

On the microphone, Phil took a deep, unsteady breath.

“All right then,” he said. “Here’s what we’ll do. You finish getting me ready, and then Jenni can show me how she fucks you. Would you like that?” the feed turned to Jenni, who liked that very much if her flushed face and bright eyes were any sign. “Opening him up nice and slow, getting him wet and ready to take my cock?”

“I like the way you think,” Jenni said. “Vin?”

“Please,” Vinnie said. “I—please.”

“Then get back to work,” she said, smacking him lightly on the ass, “and make sure to keep this hole where I can get to it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Vinnie said, and he bent down back out of the video frame; Phil sucked in a sharp breath, though his feed was focused to the side, where Jenni was pulling a smallish pink dildo, a tangle of straps that must be her harness, and a bottle of lube out of the same drawer that had held the condoms.

“Take your time, Jenni,” Phil said, in that rough voice that seemed to reach right through the comm and run fingernails down Clint’s spine. “Be gentle with him, he’s going to need it.”

Vinnie made a muffled sound, and Clint’s fists clenched when he realized why it was muffled.

(It was because Vinnie’s mouth was full of Phil’s cock.)

_Keep it together, Barton. You’re a goddamned professional._

Clint bit the inside of his cheek, trying to force himself to get some distance, but it was a losing battle. Phil might be stubbornly refusing to look down at his own body, but the microphone was capturing his every hitched breath and half-swallowed moan and piping them straight into Clint’s ear like the man himself was standing inches away.

“Okay, baby,” Jenni said. “Stay nice and relaxed for me, okay?”

Vinnie hummed an affirmative, arching his back, and then moaned as she pushed her finger slowly into his ass. Phil looked down—for once—and Clint could see him running his hands through Vinnie’s hair. Vinnie pulled back a little to look up at Phil, and Clint inhaled sharply at the sight of his face, smeared with spit and strawberry lube, his expression raw with desperate want, lips wrapped taut around Phil. He had both hands wrapped around Phil’s cock, and there was still only a sliver of condom visible between his hands and his stretched, wet mouth.

Fuck, how big must Phil _be_ , to—no. Not now. _Professional_.

Clint shifted, the seam of his jeans pressing painfully on his swollen dick. Somewhere, someone or something must be laughing their ass off at him right now.

“That’s right,” Phil said, and it took Clint a split second to realize that Phil wasn’t talking to him. “You’re doing so well, Vinnie. Show her how much you want her cock.” Phil’s feed moved back to Vinnie’s ass, revealing Jenni looking flushed and smug as Vinnie rocked himself back eagerly onto her hand.

“How’s he coming along?” Phil asked her.

“He’s doing beautiful,” Jenni said, patting Vinnie’s hip with her free hand. “I got three fingers in easy, I think he’s ready for more.”

Clint could hear Vinnie making an indistinct noise of agreement.

“Well, then,” Phil said. “Vinnie, sit up a minute while Jenni gets ready to fuck you.”

There was some shuffling and rustling and the bed jostled with movement as the DiMarcos repositioned, Jenni sliding her fingers out and wiping them on a towel before standing up next to the bed to untangle her harness. Phil looked at Vinnie, who was kneeling on the bed in front of him. Vinnie’s cock was dark red and shining with moisture, so hard it made Clint flinch a little in reluctant sympathy, resisting the urge to give his own steadfastly ignored erection a reassuring pat.

“You get to choose what I do while Jenni fucks you,” Phil told him. “I can watch, from wherever in the room you like. Or I can hold you still for her. Or, if you want, you can keep sucking my cock while she’s fucking your ass.”

Vinnie shivered visibly. “Yes, please, that,” he said, his eyes flicking hungrily between—if Clint was judging the eyelines right—Phil’s chest and his cock. “Both, please.”

“Mm, Vin, good idea,” Jenni said, and Phil turned to look at her. She’d ditched the robe, and was only wearing the harness, the little pink dildo sticking out perkily at the juncture of her thighs.

“You look lovely,” Phil told her, and reached out a hand. “May I?”

She ducked her head, a little shy all of a sudden, and Clint could only imagine the look Phil must be giving her to induce it. “Um, sure,” she said, putting her hand in his. “Whatever you want.”

“I’m glad that you’re treating your wife with all the care that she deserves,” Phil told Vinnie, drawing her closer. Clint got a close view as Phil kissed her cheek, then took some time kissing her mouth, finally drawing back to reveal it swollen and wet.

(Her red lipstick wasn’t even smeared, Clint couldn’t help noting. She must be wearing one hell of a long-lasting formula.)

“You’re taking such good care of Vinnie,” Phil murmured, kissing her neck, then her collarbone. Clint could hear her breathy little moans every time he made contact, and each one made his dick throb.

“Vinnie, come help me,” Phil ordered, and Clint could see Phil’s neat clever hands cupping Jenni’s tits (and they were really nice tits, Clint could admit, round and creamy-looking with big rosy nipples.) “Take the other side.”

Honestly, the only small mercy was that the cameras couldn’t see anything once Phil got close enough to—from the sound of it—get his mouth on Jenni’s breast. The things Clint could hear were bad enough; wet sounds of kisses and sucks, sighs and gasps and moans both male and female. Normally, Clint would have been able to tune it out, mentally mark it down as something like a porn soundtrack, gross or funny if you weren’t participating. This time he couldn’t, though. Every time he thought he’d manage it, he’d hear something identifiably in Phil’s voice.

When the next alert came from the infiltration team, he almost slid out of his chair in relief as he turned the volume on Phil’s feed down.

“Go ahead,” he said quietly, and listened for the coded report. When it was over, he sent the acknowledgement and pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing.

Nat and Jimmy were half done.

It was entirely possible that Clint was going to have some sort of coronary event by the end of this op. Phil would come back to the van and find him lying there stone dead with a wet spot on his pants and a big grin on his face.

Shit.

The indistinct sounds in his ear had turned back into words, so he turned the feed back up, looking for a good opportunity to give Phil the progress update. They were moving back toward the bed, so Clint quickly tapped out the notification tone and then, after a pause, said “fifty percent.”

Phil nodded slightly, then turned toward Vinnie. The interlude seemed to have backed him down a little from the edge of exploding with lust, but he was still looking at Phil like he’d just had a religious experience and discovered that God lived inside Phil’s pants.

“Would you be comfortable on your hands and knees?” Phil asked. Vinnie nodded frantically.

“Up you go then,” Phil said, and while Vinnie was positioning himself, Phil turned to Jenni, holding out a hand and helping her up to kneel behind her husband. Clint had seen him do pretty much the same thing handing someone out of a car; he didn’t think he’d ever see that particular turn of wrist again without flashbacks.

Phil’s feed moved from Vinnie’s ass to Jenni’s little pink dildo. “The height looks good,” he said. “I thought we might have to get some pillows to even you out, but I think you’ll be fine like this.” He leaned in to kiss Jenni again, then patted Vinnie’s flank. “Let me get up there, then we can start.”

It took far too little time—not nearly enough for Clint to calm himself down—for Phil to settle onto the bed in front of Vinnie, giving Clint an excellent view of Vinnie’s Speedo-shaped tan lines and Jenni, kneeling flushed and excited and poised to start pegging her husband doggy-style.

Sometimes, Clint thought that he should really reconsider his life choices.

“You start,” Phil told Jenni, “give him a chance for feedback before I fill up his mouth.”

“Okay, babe, just let me know if I need to slow down,” Jenni said, and then spread Vinnie’s cheeks with one hand while guiding the dildo with the other. Clint couldn’t see the, er, point of contact, but it was pretty obvious once Jenni got inside by the way Vinnie shivered and moaned “yeah, oh yeah, fuck me baby.”

Jenni obliged, and even Clint had to admit that her look of concentration was pretty adorable. She obviously really wanted to make it good, biting her lip as she watched her cock moving, her hands petting over Vinnie’s back and sides.

“Ready for me?” Phil asked, his feed dipping down to catch Vinnie’s face.

“Yes sir please,” Vinnie blurted, his words tripping over each other in his haste.

“Easy,” Phil said, “I’ve got you,” and then _holy fuck_ , he looked down to guide his gorgeous cock between Vinnie’s lips, finally giving Clint a look at the full length of it, straining the limits of the Magnum, latex-pale and gleaming wet where it emerged from Phil’s grip. No way in hell a novice like Vinnie would be able to take more than a little past the head.

(Clint, now… Clint really had learned sword-swallowing in the circus. His gag reflex was well and truly conquered, a fact which he’d been saving for an appropriate moment to introduce into the conversation. Preferably a moment where there was nothing stopping them from testing the assertion right then and there.)

On the screen, Vinnie was sucking and slurping Phil’s cockhead with small skill but a lot of enthusiasm, probably not even noticing that Phil’s grip on his shaft was angled to act a little like a cock ring, to help him stay hard even if the situation wasn’t the most inspiring. Clint wasn’t feeling smug, because there was no need to worry about whether he was a better lover than Vinnie DiMarco, because Vinnie DiMarco was a mark. As soon as the infiltration team was clear, Phil would wrap this up and make his way out and come back to the van and go back to HQ with Clint, and Clint was definitely not going to go down on his knees and try to lick the mobster right off Phil’s cock, because Phil was counting on Clint’s professionalism and mission support.

Clint’s mouth was watering, all the same, and he couldn’t help imaging the way that fat cockhead would nestle on his tongue, tuck against his palate hot and salty and all for him.

_Later._

Phil’s feed finally moved away from his cock, looking down Vinnie’s back to Jenni. “I think you can go a little harder,” he said. “Let’s see if we can get a rhythm going.”

It took them a few false starts, punctuated by muffled grunts from Vinnie, nervous giggles from Jenni, and reassurances from Phil (who should not be able to sound that calm while spitroasting a guy, Christ almighty), but they finally got in the groove, so to speak, rocking Vinnie back and forth between them while he moaned around Phil’s cock like he was going to pass out right there on the leopard-print bedspread.

Clint couldn’t really blame him, to be honest.

“Rock a little as you slide it out,” Phil told Jenni. “Down toward his front, so you’ll tag his prostate.”

She bit her lip, another tiny frown of concentration between her brows as she tilted her hips. She must have gotten it right, because the next time Vinnie humped back toward her, he yelled something unintelligible that made her grin in triumph.

“Sorry, sorry,” Vinnie said.

Phil looked down and rubbed a thumb over Vinnie’s reddened bottom lip. “It’s all right,” he said gently. “I was going to stop you soon anyway; If I let you go on too much longer, I wouldn’t have been able to give you what you want. Right now you just relax and take your fucking like a good boy, and we’ll tell you when you need to do something else, all right?”

“You’ll still fuck me too, though, right?” Vinnie asked anxiously. “When Jenni’s done?”

“If you still want that, of course I will.”

“I do! Please, sir, I want it so bad.”

“Then you’ll have it,” Phil said, soothing. “You’ve earned it, being so good for Jenni and me tonight, hasn’t he, Jenni?”

He looked up just in time to catch her giving her husband a hell of a thrust, pushing a long, luxurious groan out of him. She grinned at Phil. “You bet he has.”

Phil moved out from his spot at the head of the bed, propping Vinnie’s chest up on pillows and stroking a hand down his spine when Vinnie whimpered, sounding a little panicked.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “I just want to watch Jenni work.” He stood just to the side of the bed, reaching out at intervals to tweak a nipple or stroke a thigh but making frequent approving comments about how pretty they were, how well Jenni fucked, that sort of thing. Clint figured he was trying to buy time for the infiltration team, backing Vinnie off his hair-trigger and giving himself a little space to plan or something; it was a very Phil thing to do.

After a few minutes, Jenni turned to Phil. “Could you hand me that little vibrator on the table?” she asked, slowing her pace.

“Ready for more?” Phil picked it up, a little silver bullet-shaped thing, connected to a control box with a long cord, and handed it over. She set it down on Vinnie’s back.

“Mm,” Jenni agreed. She picked up the bottle of lube she’d been using on Vinnie and lubed up the bullet, then pulled back from his hips a little and slipped it down the front of her harness, her arm flexing as she got it situated.

“Oh, very nice indeed,” Phil said approvingly. “Do you like it right on your clit?”

Jenni giggled. “Not at first, but when I’ve been going this long, yeah,” she said. “Sometimes I can come like four times in a row.” She bit her lip, looking up at Phil through her tumbled curls, her expression suddenly and illogically shy. “Would you, um, do you want to…?” she gestured with the control box.

“I would love to,” Phil assured her, taking it from her hand. “What do you say, Vinnie, shall we see how many times we can make her come?”

“Fuck yeah,” Vinnie moaned. “Gonna be so good for you, Jenni.”

Phil moved closer, brushing her hair away from her face. “You just concentrate on fucking Vinnie like he deserves,” he murmured into her ear, “and I’ll make sure you get what you need.”

Clint was going to _literally die_.

Phil kissed her temple and moved back a little. “Whenever you want,” he said gently, and she started moving again, fucking into Vinnie slow and steady. It was obvious when Phil turned the vibrator on; even if he hadn’t looked down at the dial, Jenni jumped and squeaked, a breathy little sound that melted into a moan as she ground her hips against Vinnie’s ass.

Phil played with her for what seemed like ages but was objectively probably about twelve minutes, turning the vibrator up high and making her squeal and shake, then cranking it back down to a whisper; when she wailed in disappointment he stroked her sweaty hair away from her forehead and told her she was amazing, that she should keep going just like this. Clint had counted at least four orgasms by the time the infiltration team signaled, and he’d never considered himself a slouch in bed, but _damn_. Phil was like on a whole other level.

“Go ahead,” he told the infiltration team, and received the code for MISSION COMPLETE, BEGINNING EXFIL.

“Roger that, control out,” Clint said, just as, on Phil’s glasses feed, Jenni arched her back in what was pretty obviously orgasm number five. He turned Phil’s audio back up just in time to hear him say, “Was that a record?”

The smug bastard.

Jenni giggled and nodded, collapsed over Vinnie’s back and petting clumsily at his flanks. “Oh my _god_ ,” she said. “Vin, if he’s as good with his cock as he is with that thing, you are in for a _treat_.”

“I endeavor to give satisfaction,” Phil said, and Clint could practically _see_ his little smirk, just from the sleek tone of his voice. Before could say anything else infuriatingly sexy, Clint pinged him and waited for the little nod.

“Exfil started,” Clint said. “Out.”

“Here,” Phil said, helping Jenni pull out of her husband and lay back on the pillows beside him, where the two of them spent a minute whispering to each other and exchanging little smooches, the pink dildo still springing jauntily straight into the air between her splayed thighs. She was wet halfway down to her knees, gleaming in the low light, her chest still heaving with panting breath.

“So, Vinnie,” Phil started, “do you still—”

“Yes, please!” Vinnie blurted. He was still on his knees and elbows, his cock swinging hard and nearly purple down between his legs.

“Shh,” Phil said, running a hand down his back. “It’s all right, you’ve done so well, Vinnie. I’m going to give you what you need.” His feed turned toward Jenni. “Do you mind if I help myself to your supplies?”

She waved a languid hand in Phil’s direction before burying it in Vinnie’s hair, petting his head and drawing out a happy little hum. “Go ahead, our lube is your lube.”

The feed dipped—Phil nodding his thanks—and bobbed around as Phil went over to the drawer, opening it to reveal broad range of condoms, lubes, and toys. He pulled out another few Magnums—situated conveniently close to an enormous blue dildo—and turned over the lube selection, finally settling on one whose label declared it “for intense anal play.” Before he closed the drawer, he also pulled out a few black latex gloves from a box in the corner.

Clint shifted in his chair, clearing his throat and trying to keep his bodily awareness strictly above the waist.

“Jenni’s done a nice job working you open for me, Vinnie,” Phil said, moving back onto the bed, “but I’m going to need to do a little more to get you ready for my cock, okay?”

“But you will, right?” Vinnie said, twisting around to look at Phil over his own shoulder. “You’ll give me your cock at the end? I want it, please sir.”

Phil patted his hip. “I will, I promise,” he said, his voice so reassuring that Clint could see tension easing out of Vinnie’s back. “You’ve been such a good boy for us tonight, you’ve earned your fucking just like you wanted.”

“Okay,” Vinnie said. “What… whatever you want, sir.”

“Good boy,” Phil told him, and it was weird, okay, because it was almost his professional positive-feedback tone, but also it totally wasn’t, and Clint didn’t like Vinnie DiMarco getting to hear it.

Phil pulled the gloves on, and Clint would have sworn inside-out and upside-down that the sound of it was too inextricably linked in his mind to, like, getting sutures to ever be sexy. Maybe it was because the gloves were black, or maybe (probably) it was just because Phil, but he found himself shivering right along with Vinnie at the smack of rubber. Phil flipped open the lube and squeezed a healthy glop of it onto his gloved fingers, and then Clint was treated to a close-up look at Vinnie’s asshole, pink and waxed and already shiny and loose from Jenni’s earlier efforts. He was almost glad, because he was just _not interested_ in the view and it almost let him snap himself back into a properly professional frame of mind, but then Phil’s long, graceful fingers, unmistakeable to Clint even with the gloves on, entered the frame and Clint gave up on professionalism and re-adjusted his goal to not screwing up his actual mission tasks.

His team was counting on him: he could do that much.

Phil ran his index finger over Vinnie’s hole, dipping just inside with the tip as though he were testing how stretched it was, and Vinnie gasped.

“All right?” Phil murmured, stilling his hand.

“It’s good,” Vinnie said, arching his back. “So good, sir.”

“Make all the noise you want to,” Phil told him. “I like hearing how you’re doing.”

“Yes, si—ah!” Vinnie’s response turned into a cry as Phil thrust two fingers inside him, a long steady slide all the way in.

“You remember what to say if you need me to go slower?” Phil said, drawing his fingers out slowly and pushing them back in, lube squelching wetly back along his hand.

“Y-yellow, sir,” Vinnie moaned.

“And do you promise me to do it if you need to? If you let me hurt you, I won’t be pleased.”

“I p-promise,” Vinnie said. “I promise, sir, I promise, I’ll be good!”

“Good boy,” Phil soothed, and gave his fingers a little twist that made Vinnie howl. That’d be the prostate, then. Phil would need to be careful there or Vinnie’d pop off before Phil even got inside, and then probably Phil would have to stay until Vinnie could get it up again, and then where would Clint be? Stuck in a surveillance van for all eternity, was where, watching the man he loved finger a mobster and not even allowed to get off to the view.

“There we go,” Phil said, pulling his hand back and returning with three fingers. “Breathe nice and deep for me, Vinnie, a little more stretch now.” He took this one slower, advancing in little nudges. “Yes, I can feel that, just keep relaxing, good boy.” When he finally had all three fingers in as deep as they would go, he stopped moving, rubbing at the small of Vinnie’s back with his other hand. “How are you doing?”

“It’s good, sir,” Vinnie said, a little whine under his breath. “It—stretches, but it feels good.”

“Jenni, can you help watch him for me?” Phil asked, looking at her. “Make sure he’s getting what he needs?”

“Of course,” she said, leaning up on her elbow to kiss her husband. “You keep on going there, I’ve got this end.” She giggled.

“Perfect,” Phil said. “All right, Vinnie, another finger now, and then you’ll get what you asked for.” He pulled his hand out and added more lube, then pressed the bunched-up tips of his gloved fingers back against Vinnie’s loosened hole. The first three slipped immediately back into the space they’d made for themselves, and then the tip of Phil’s pinkie reached Vinnie’s entrance.

“Push back a little for me, Vinnie,” Phil said, and the muscles in his forearm flexed as he twisted his hand a bit, applying steady, gentle pressure until his fourth finger popped inside. Vinnie let out a high, wavering cry, and Phil stopped moving. “Vinnie? Give me your color.”

“Don’t take them out!” he begged. “I’m fine, I—”

“Vinnie. Color.” Phil’s voice was firm, commanding, and Clint could see Vinnie’s shoulders sag.

“Yellow, sir, please? Just—I’ve never—just let me get used to it? I still want it, I still want you, sir please,” Vinnie babbled.

“Shh, Vin, it’s okay,” Jenni said, kissing his temple. “Phil will give you what you need, it’s okay, take all the time you need.”

“She’s right,” Phil said. “You just let me know when you feel ready to go on.” He rested his free hand on Vinnie’s back, stroking down his spine as Vinnie panted and shivered. Before long, Vinnie’s breathing started to even out again, his muscles relaxing.

“There you go,” Phil said, his voice coaxing and low. “Just like that, Vinnie.”

“I’m ready now,” Vinnie said, and Phil started moving again, not even pushing inwards yet but turning his hand slowly, rotating the bundle of his fingers a few times before starting to move forward again.

Clint’s dick was aching and throbbing in his pants already, but by the time Phil finished giving Vinnie what had to be one of the most patient and thorough fingerbangs in the history of anal, Clint thought he might very well have some kind of spontaneous orgasm, despite his best efforts to remain unmoved—or at least unmoved enough to provide backup and control from the van. When Phil finally pulled back and peeled off the black gloves, Clint was focused so intently on the feed that the signal from the infiltration team actually made him jump in the chair.

There were _so many reasons_ it was a good thing he was alone in the van for this op.

“Control here,” he said, flipping onto their channel.

“We’re clear of the neighborhood, package is in hand,” Natasha reported.

“Great,” Clint said. He consulted his briefing packet. “Rendezvous at Point Charlie, Beta team will pick up the package from you there.”

He let out a sigh of relief. Now there was nothing holding Phil back from wrapping up the distraction portion of the evening and getting his fine ass back to the van so they could leave the DiMarcos, Atlantic City, and possibly the entire Jersey Shore behind forever. He sent the notification tone; on his screen, Phil’s hands paused in the middle of tearing open the wrapper of another Magnum, then dipped in a nod.

“Package is clear,” Clint murmured. “You are green to conclude your op.”

Phil nodded again, then ripped the condom open with a renewed vigor; Clint made very sure his mic was off, and it was a good thing, because Phil then proceeded to look down at himself while he slicked himself up with a skim of lube, rolled the Magnum on, and then lubed up his latex-clad cock. The brief glimpse Clint had gotten before the condom went on was tantalizing, flushed dark with purple-blue veins that Clint wanted to trace with his tongue, a fat shining head that Clint was dying to taste—but covered by the rubber, Phil’s cock somehow managed to look even more pornographic. The sheer size of him and the details obscured by the condom made him look almost artificial, like a premium dildo or something. Phil would be hot to the touch, though, probably with a pulse you could feel even through the latex, vital and alive the way no toy ever could be.

“Are you ready for me to give you my cock?” Phil said.

“Fuck yeah,” Clint muttered, then felt his face go hot. He’d… he’d meant to say that. Really.

(Thank everything thankable he’d extra certain for sure turned off his mic. There were certain things that did not need to be preserved in the mission transcripts for all eternity.)

Vinnie, meanwhile, was assuring Phil that he would like nothing better than to take his cock now, please and thank you sir, and Clint watched Phil watching himself line up to Vinnie’s hole with a slightly queasy mixture of envy and lust. When Phil’s cockhead pressed inside, Clint groaned right along with Vinnie; he might not be feeling it (soon, soon, please let it happen for them _soon_ ) but he had an excellent viewpoint from which to appreciate Phil’s… technique. All the time spent working Vinnie open had obviously paid off, because Phil was rocking himself in slow but steady, every inch of forward progress punching needy little whines and pleas out of Vinnie’s throat.

Phil’s feed turned over to Jenni, who was stroking the sweaty hair out of Vinnie’s eyes, whispering things to him that the feed wasn’t picking up.

“How’s he doing, Jenni?”

“Mmm, he’s loving it, aren’t you, Vin?” Jenni said, and Vinnie nodded, making his hair flop back down into his eyes again.

“Good,” Phil said. He looked back down, gripping Vinnie’s hips with both hands, with enough force to dent the flesh a little. “Unless you tell me, I’m not going to stop again, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Vinnie managed, and Phil patted his hip approvingly and then started moving again, faster this time, one long smooth thrust that had Vinnie wailing and pushing back into it, until Phil was buried in his ass.

“Good boy,” Phil said, and then he really put his back into it.

Clint had been trained in every variety of interrogation resistance. He could undergo everything from torture to a seduction attempt to a fake sweet old granny trying to pump him for intel over pie, and still manage to plant false leads while totally selling that he was falling for it. He could distract himself, he could dissociate, he could switch his focus. But none of his tried and true techniques, the products of thousands of hours of skill-building and training from the finest minds in SHIELD, were doing him a bit of damn good against the sight and sound of Phil plowing Vinnie DiMarco’s ass like a goddamn _machine_.

Phil had gone mostly quiet, just letting out an occasional grunt of effort when his hips slammed up against Vinnie’s ass. Clint almost couldn’t hear it, though, because Vinnie was making up for it and then some, whimpering and moaning to beat the band, and Clint couldn’t even fault him for it. It wasn’t theatrical porn-star moaning, was the thing, it was broken and needy and real, the sounds of a guy who… well. The sounds of a guy who’d decided to lose his virginity with guys and then been lucky enough to pick up Phillip J. Coulson to see it done.

Clint was a long way from any kind of a virgin, but he was pretty sure that in Vinnie’s place, he wouldn’t sound much different.

It didn’t take long before Vinnie’s noises modulated up a key and he started gasping out words in the middle of the rest of it.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, fuck,” he managed to say, his voice broken and jarred by Phil’s steady thrusts. “I’m gonna—please—right there, right there, I—” he trailed off in a shuddering whimper.

“I think he might be gonna come,” Jenni said, looking up at Phil with wide eyes. “I mean, he’s never—not without a reacharound? But—”

“Sir, please,” Vinnie panted. “Please, I wanna come, please.” His back was visibly sweaty and trembling; Phil wasn’t looking at his cock, but as hard as he’d been when they started, Clint imagined he must be nearly agonized by now.

“You want it,” Phil said, and his voice was finally showing a little strain, rough and catching like he was in the middle of a run, and it sent shudders along every single one of Clint’s nerves. “You want it bad, don’t you Vinnie, but you’re such a good boy, you’re never greedy, won’t take it without permission, will you?”

“Nooo,” Vinnie moaned. “Want— _ah!_ —from you, sir.”

“That kind of good behavior deserves a reward,” Phil said, his tone dark and rich and promising, and Clint felt his own cock jerk in his pants when Phil set a hand between Vinnie’s shoulder blades and pushed him down, so he was on knees and elbows instead of knees and hands. Phil adjusted his grip, paused for a few seconds, did something to the way his hips were angled, and started fucking again; he must have been drawing it out a little before, avoiding the prostate, because at the first thrust Vinnie _howled_.

“Yeaaaah,” he sobbed, and then seemed to lose the ability to form words entirely, just letting out high-pitched, thready little ah-ah-ah sounds every time Phil slammed home, and in less than a minute Clint could see his entire body seize tight and then shudder as he came, completely untouched, just on Phil’s cock.

Phil shoved himself inside as Vinnie started to come, holding his hips flush; when Vinnie finally finished, his arms buckled under him and his front half flopped down onto the bed, his ass still in the air with Phil’s cock stuffed inside.

Jenni crooned, pushing Vinnie’s hair away from his face and kissing him. “There you go, baby,” she said. “Didn’t Phil fuck you so nice? I knew he would, I could just tell.”

“Y-yeah,” he said, wavering and sounding like he might cry, or maybe he already had been. “But, sir, you didn’t—”

“Shhh,” Phil said, running a hand down his spine. “I wanted you to have a chance to enjoy it first. You took that so well, Vinnie, you did wonderfully. It’ll be my turn in a minute.”

Jenni sighed, looking over at Phil wistfully. “I almost want to take a ride myself,” she said, and Clint went cold with horror because no, no way, his brain was already giving him vivid 3D Technicolor images of Jenni bouncing up and down on Phil’s cock and he _could not take it,_ some things were too much for one man to—

“That wouldn’t be fair, though,” Jenni continued. “You’ve got to be dying to come by now and I’ve had mine already.”

“On me,” Vinnie mumbled into the pillow.

“Sorry?” Phil said, looking at Jenni inquiringly.

“He wants you to come on him, he’s always liked that in porn,” Jenni said. Vinnie nodded, burying his face in the pillow, the tips of his ears going red.

“Ah,” Phil said, sounding enlightened. “You want me to mark you, Vinnie? With my come, and maybe my teeth, too? Give you something to remember?”

Vinnie nodded again, whimpering into the pillow.

“Then I will,” Phil said, pulling out of Vinnie’s ass, making him let out a pained little moan. Phil moved to the side and helped Vinnie stretch out on his belly. “I’ll give you a mark, Vinnie, and then I’ll come on you, make you wet and sticky with it, and then I’ll rub it in so you smell like me, so you’ll remember whose cock it was you came around tonight.”

Clint bit down on the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood, even as Vinnie was babbling his approval of that plan. Clint’s cock was strangling behind his fly, but it was just as well, because the pain was probably the only thing that kept him able to still pay attention to the monitors as Phil stretched out over Vinnie and sucked a livid hickey into the meat of his shoulder, then sat up and stripped off the condom and took himself in hand—in _both_ hands, mother _fucker—_ and jerked himself off, rough and quick, punching gutteral little sounds out of himself and finally coming with a low rumbling moan, coming everywhere, all over Vinnie’s back and arms and clear up into his hair, fucking hell, before leaning down like it was, was massage oil or some shit and rubbing it into Vinnie’s skin.

Clint heard a distinctly female moan, and when Phil looked up he saw Jenni with her legs splayed open, working her clit with two fingers until she came again too, her toes curling.

“I couldn’t help myself,” she said, giggling as she wiped her hand on the sheets, “that was so hot, you guys.” She patted Vinnie’s shoulder. “I think Vin’s all fucked out, though.” She shot Phil a bright-eyed look. “I’d love to invite you to stay the night, but we’ve got staff coming in the morning, and I wouldn’t want to make things awkward,” she said.

“Completely understandable,” Phil told her, and he was still naked with his come-smeared cock hanging out, but Clint could hear the professional coming back into his tone, tucking away the filthy-mouthed man who’d railed Vinnie like a jackhammer, and somehow that just made Clint even more desperate for him.

“Although,” Jenni said, “if you ever wanted a repeat performance, I know we’d love to see you again.”

“That would be lovely,” Phil told her, and Clint choked on air until he continued, “but this is actually my last trip to the east coast; my company is transferring me to the Asia-Pacific region next month.”

She pouted. “Aw, boo,” she said. “How will we ever find anyone else to fuck Vinnie that good?”

Phil looked down at her, and when he spoke, his voice was serious. “Carefully,” he said. “I mean it; don’t play those games with someone you can’t trust, all right? I’d hate for either of you to get hurt.”

Jenni blinked, her lips trembling, and then flung her arms around Phil in an impulsive hug. “You’re just the _sweetest_ ,” she said. “Vinnie did so good with you, Phil.” She gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek. “I promise, we’ll be careful next time,” she said. “Wouldn’t want to ruin it for Vinnie, you know?”

“Good,” Phil told her.

Clint hung on by a thread as Phil freshened up in the little ensuite, emerging tidy and re-dressed as Jenni was tucking Vinnie into the less-wrecked side of the bed. He maintained his composure as Jenni walked Phil out, offered to call him a cab, Phil waved his phone and said he’d get one at the end of the street, for discretion. Clint curled his fingers into fists so tight his nails hurt his palms as Phil kissed her goodnight, gentle and surprisingly chaste for a woman who’d just had six orgasms in his company; he controlled his breathing ruthlessly as Phil watched Jenni close the door behind him and started walking down the street.

“Distraction team clear,” Phil murmured. “Proceeding to rendezvous Echo.”

“Roger,” Clint managed, and as soon as he could tell that Phil was clear he slammed his comms to mute and shoved back from the monitor, nearly ripping off his button in an effort to get his pants open. He arched his back, lifting his hips off the chair and shoving his pants and underwear down far enough to get his cock out. Every jostle and incidental brush of fabric was almost agonizingly intense; Clint had been so hard for so long that coming was less about pleasure at this point and more about relief.

There was nothing in the van to use for lube—not unless Clint wanted to use the leftover ketchup packets from Jimmy’s Burger King run, which: no—so Clint licked his palm, trying to work up enough spit to give at least a little glide, and then took himself in hand.

“Ffffffuck,” he gasped, bucking up into his own grip. He’d never—he hadn’t—look, Clint had a kinky girlfriend one time, okay, who liked to tie him up and see how long she could play with his dick without making him come, and even at the end of her most ambitious session Clint hadn’t felt like this, like he had a billion nerve endings and was feeling sensation from every one of them individually. His grip hurt, rough and too-dry on over-sensitized skin, but it felt so good, too, a pressure he had to fuck up into no matter how many half-pained whines he couldn’t help making as he did it.

He kept his eyes focused on the monitor, just in case anything happened and Phil needed him, but his mind was busy calling up those few brief glimpses of Phil’s cock, the way his voice changed when he talked dirty, the sounds he made when he was fucking, when he came.

Was Phil always like that in bed, or was it an act for the marks’ benefit? Would Phil want to be in charge of Clint that way, when they finally took their chance?

Clint kind of hoped so, honestly, at least sometimes. It must be so good to be able to let yourself go that completely, if you were with someone you knew you could trust to the end of time. Phil would take such good care of him, and Clint would show him good, he’d never _had_ it as good as Clint could be. Would be. Soon.

Clint tightened his fingers around himself and sped his movement, the strokes almost burning, now, but still so good. He groped with his free hand in the scattering of documents and cables on the little workspace in front of him, and found a stack of napkins that would have to do for cleanup.

He’d suck Phil’s cock first, he decided. It was such a lovely shape, it would feel so amazing in Clint’s mouth. Maybe once he’d shown off his deepthroating skills, Phil would agree to fuck Clint’s face, let go a little and just use him. Clint imagined working his way down to Phil’s root, nose buried in the dark thatch of hair, breathing in the scent of him. Maybe they’d position themselves so that Phil’s thighs would be pressed against Clint’s ears, so that Clint would be surrounded, his entire body at Phil’s mercy, his entire world full, everything empty that he carried full and brimming over with Phil, throat and ass and mind and heart.

“I’m five minutes out, Clint,” Phil said quietly, and Clint’s hand clenched, and his balls spasmed, and he just barely got his handful of napkins in place in time to catch it as he came and came for what felt like hours.

“Clint?” Phil said, a worried note creeping into his voice, and Clint raised the hand that wasn’t clutching a wad of come-soaked Burger King napkins to unmute his comms.

“Roger,” he said. “Standing by.”

Once he was back on mute, he gave himself exactly ten seconds to enjoy the languid rush of orgasm-chemicals in his blood, then he cleaned his flinching, sensitive cock with another of the napkins and shoved the whole mess deep into the abandoned Burger King bag, which he then wadded up and tossed into the far corner of the van. He wanted to open a window, but operational security was operational security, so he contented himself with tucking himself back into his clothes and using a file folder as a sort of fan to stir up the stuffy air.

* * *

 

 

Finally satisfied that the van was as un-incriminating as he could make it, Clint leaned back in the chair, staring blearily at the monitors. He could see the outside of the van growing steadily larger in Phil’s feed, the fake construction company logo faded in the dim overflow of the street lamp down the block. At the same time, he could see Phil in the feed from the camera hidden behind the van’s bumper, his approaching figure distorted by the fisheye lens.

Phil was lifting his fist to knock on the back of the van when Clint opened it, giving Phil a reach up into the van with his left hand before he remembered that he hadn’t actually washed that hand since he’d used it on his dick.

Shit.

Phil didn’t seem to notice anything untoward, though, just closing the door behind him and locking it before letting out a long, gusty sigh. “First things first,” he said wearily, and cleared his throat. “Distraction team rendezvous complete at 1:47 am, footage concludes,” he said, then reached up and took off the video glasses. He folded one earpiece in and then pressed two points on the glasses simultaneously, then looked around. “Do you know where the—” he started, and Clint held out the specialized case for the glasses.

Phil put them away neatly and then stowed the case in his inner jacket pocket, then bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose hard. “Well, thank god that’s over,” he said, voice wry.

“Hey, you okay?” Clint asked, daring to rest his hand lightly—barely even any weight, just the merest breath of a touch, ready to be snatched back if unwelcome—on Phil’s shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Phil said, leaning in to the touch a little. “Just tired and embarrassed and desperate for a shower. God, I think that guy bathes in cologne; I reek of jizz and Paco Rabanne.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Clint lied. He maybe hadn’t needed to worry so much about the Burger King bag. “And, I mean, you got nothing to be embarrassed of, Phil. You rocked their worlds.”

Phil sighed. “It felt a little unfair, to be perfectly honest,” he said. “I mean, it was one thing when we were all expecting him to be… well. His father’s son, I suppose. But god, Clint, he shook like a puppy the first time I touched him. It was hard to keep my head in the game and remember he was the subject of the investigation, not someone I needed to save.”

Clint daringly let his hand rest more solidly on Phil’s shoulder and slide towards his neck a little. “You had to do undercover at no notice, that’s bound to fuck you up a little,” he said. “But you pulled it off, Infiltration got everything they were after, and the marks were none the wiser. Nobody could expect more.” He gave Phil an assessing look; he seemed a little off, and he’d been working hard for hours without a break. “You need a protein bar or something?”

“Protein bars don’t solve everything, Clint,” Phil said, but he smiled at him while he said it, and Clint had to forcibly restrain the urge to tug him into an embrace, kiss the place on his cheek where he tucked that half-smile that Clint loved.

“Says you,” he retorted. “Sit down, get a load off, eat something while I drive us back to HQ so we can see what Natasha and Jimmy found.”

“I—if you wouldn’t mind, I think I’d rather ride up front with you,” Phil said, his expression strangely diffident. “Talk a while, maybe, get my head back in the right space.”

“Of course,” Clint said. He pulled out a protein bar anyway and a bottle of water, handing them to Phil. He hated the weird uncomfortable aura in the van, the way Phil was standing with his shoulders slumped a little, the creases in his forehead. Impulsively, he slung his arm all the way around Phil and gave him a hard sideways hug, letting himself enjoy the way Phil felt against his side, firm muscles under smooth leather. Phil, for his part, sighed softly and let himself lean into the hug, and Clint wanted to drive the van off into the night and tuck Phil away in a hotel somewhere and run him a bubble bath and tuck him into bed and then wake him in the morning with a blowjob. Unfortunately, he lived in the real world, so instead he reluctantly let go and opened the narrow door to the front of the van, grabbing the keys off the table. “Come on, b—Phil,” he said, and bit his lip at the endearment that had almost slipped out. “Let’s head back. Maybe we’ll be lucky and it’ll turn out the DiMarcos wanna go straight and they’re willing to go state’s evidence on the ring.”

Phil chuckled, rusty but more like himself. “I mean, someone already picked me up in a bar instead of Natasha,” he said. “At this point, anything could happen.”

                                                                                                    

* * *

 

Maybe it was luck, or maybe it was family rivalry, or maybe Phil really did have a magic dick that could fuck the evil right out of people, but they both stared at Natasha for nearly thirty seconds with their jaws hanging open when they got back to HQ and learned that DiMarco apparently was trying to find a way out of his father’s business, and had been compiling not only business information but blackmail materials on all his father and sister’s associates. Sitwell made contact the very next day—he informed Phil, smirking, that DiMarco had for some reason seemed reluctant to sit down at all during the meet—and then things got extremely busy as they planned and carried out a single night of simultaneous raids on every point in the syndicate chain. They ended up recovering millions of dollars in drugs and weapons and diamonds of uncertain provenance, not to mention eighty-seven people.

Clint never did get to punch Vinnie DiMarco, but the proud look on Phil’s face when he put an arrow right through Stephanie DiMarco’s arm just in time to keep her from shooting a hostage more or less made up for it.

The last he heard of Vinnie DiMarco was a press release Sitwell emailed him, in the summer of 2011: the newly-branded DiMarco Shipping had won a local LGBT-friendly workplace award. In the photo, Vinnie and Jenni were posed with a rainbow-striped trophy along with the rest of the senior staff, none of which were the same people who had worked there when Clint had been memorizing their dossiers. One person in particular caught his eye, standing on the other side of Vinnie a little closer than professional picture-taking etiquette might dictate, and looking at him with a pleased and proud expression. According to the caption, this was Vinnie’s personal head of security: early forties, white guy, strong jaw, big blue eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses. The resemblance to Phil wasn’t perfect, but it was strong enough to be pretty obvious.

Well. Whatever. Clint hoped he liked leopard print and Paco Rabanne.

He forwarded the article to Phil with a note: “you never told me you were moonlighting, Phil.”

Five minutes later his email pinged with a reply, which was one line: “fuck you, Barton.”

Clint sent back a winky face instead of what he wished he could say (anytime, anywhere), and that was that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interesting note about this: as first envisioned, Vinnie and Jenni were unrepentant baddies and not sympathetic at all, until I realized that I just absolutely could not write about a totally unlikeable person having sex (at least not with Phil). So over time, they evolved, until they had this whole other backstory as frightened queer mob kids in love who finally got a chance to escape the life of crime, and Jenni became, like, The Cutest Perky Domme Alive, and Vinnie was the guy who was seeing a lifetime of furtive terrified wanking spring to glorious life when he saw Phil sitting at that bar.
> 
> Additionally, their security chief who looks Quite Like Phil because Vinnie has A Type is totally their joint boyfriend. Possibly Jenni also has a curvy redheaded "life coach" or something who is also their joint girlfriend. And they are all very happy together in their tacky little sex dungeon in Jersey, sometimes telling sexy stories about that one guy who was Vinnie's first time with a man who made Jenni come five times in ten minutes.


	4. What If

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “…so then I jerked off in the van,” Clint said, realizing too late that he was making an illustrative hand gesture.

**The Barton Farm, Goose Lake, Iowa**

**2018**

“…so then I jerked off in the van,” Clint said, realizing too late that he was making an illustrative hand gesture.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Phil said, looking half horrified and half turned on. “You didn’t.”

“I mean, it was that or face you looking like the start of a bad porno,” Clint said. “I was about to bust out my pants, Phil, you should have seen it, I came in like thirty seconds.”

“I think that sounds like an excellent porno,” Phil said, in that tone he had that meant he was fucking with you a little but also he really meant it, and Clint had to lean over and smack a kiss onto his cheek for being adorable.

Phil smiled wistfully, his expression far away. “I almost wish I _had_ seen it, the difficulties of the situation notwithstanding,” he said. “I’d have felt better about the whole thing.”

“How d’you mean?”

“You’d just watched me having sex,” Phil said. “A fairly large amount of it, and… theatrical sex at that. And I got back to the van and you were—you were kind, and understanding, and supportive, and completely unmoved as far as I could tell. I knew you weren’t available—I thought I knew, anyway—but that doesn’t mean it did my ego any favors to learn you weren’t even a tiny bit interested.” 

“Oh, honey,” Clint said, and pulled Phil into an embrace, coffee and all, squeezing him tight up against his chest like he could make the hug go backwards in time and comfort Phil in 2009. Phil tucked his nose into the hollow of Clint’s throat and sighed, his breath on Clint’s bare skin making Clint shiver.

“I _was_ interested,” Clint said. “I was so interested, I was genuinely worried I’d fuck up the op from being distracted. The only thing keeping my hand off my dick the whole time was knowing you guys needed me on point, but fuck it was hard—don’t even say it, I know, that’s what the DiMarcos said.” He turned his head enough so he could kiss Phil’s temple. “I’d never in my life seen anything as hot as you. Not just the sex part, but you getting blindsided like that and then just taking over, making both of them roll over and beg for you. I didn’t know what I wanted more, to punch DiMarco or to take his place.”

Phil’s breath against his skin was a little quavery, and Clint felt his heart squeeze in his chest. He tightened his hold a little more, feeling Phil’s broad, strong back, so warm and firm and gorgeous under his hands. “Fuck, Phil,” he said. “I think the only reason I managed not to tackle you when you got back was that at the time I thought our wait was almost over, you know? If I’d had any idea it would be another eight years before I got to be with you, I think I’d have given up on secrecy and just gone down on my knees for you in the back of the van.”

Phil laughed a little. “Honestly, I probably wouldn’t have reacted that well at the time,” he said. “My first thought probably would have been that someone got to you somehow, slipped you something.”

“Is it that hard to believe how much I wanted you?”

“No, it—well, maybe it would have been,” Phil said. “But I meant that I wouldn’t have believed you’d cheat on your wife.”

Clint kissed him again, breathing in the smell of his shampoo, so familiar and loved. “I’d have cleared that up for you right away,” he said. “I mean… okay, I probably wouldn’t have _actually_ jumped you in the van, however much I wanted to, because mission. But I would have kissed you, probably, and told you that I couldn’t stand to wait anymore, and begged you to take me back to the hotel and take me to bed and let us figure out logistics in the morning.”

“God,” Phil said, and Clint could feel his chest heave as he drew a sobbing breath. “ _Clint_. I just—I really had no idea. I was—I’d spent the whole walk back to the van sticky and chafing, and I smelled rank, and… I was so, I was…”

“Frustrated?” Clint suggested, stroking his back. “Embarrassed?”

“Terrified,” Phil said into his neck. “I know, it didn’t make any sense, rationally I knew that you’re an agent, you do undercover too, you knew the drill. But part of me was so afraid that I’d look at you and you’d be disgusted, that I would have lost your respect, your esteem.”

“Phil,” Clint said, letting his voice go a little reproachful. He wrapped his hands around the balls of Phil’s shoulders and pulled back just enough to see his husband’s face, which had gone bright pink along the cheekbones. “Baby. Nothing you would ever choose to do would make me love you any less or respect you any less. Please tell me you know that.”

“I do know,” Phil said. He shrugged, his shoulders rising under Clint’s hands. “I knew then—well, I thought I knew, at least from the point of view of friendship. I think my head was just in a weird place that night, you know? Normally when I do undercover I’ve got a system, a way that I transition, put on the persona and then take it off again. That night…”

“DiMarco took us all by surprise,” Clint said slowly. “So you… you didn’t have time to do a transition, put on a role. You were undercover as yourself, so you had a hard time figuring out how to get back to normal, after.”

Phil nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s a good way to put it. I think if I’d been meant to be the honeypot all along, things would have been different; I would have felt different about it afterward. But it...” He broke off, shaking his head. “God, I think I felt like I’d made you watch me cheating on you,” he said. “Even though we weren’t, we’d never been like that. Even though I told myself every day that we never would be. Part of me still felt like I’d violated something precious.”

“I thought you asked for me _because_ of what we had,” Clint admitted. “Like, either because I was the only one you were okay with seeing you like that, or even maybe as like a, I dunno, a consolation prize, kinda? Like, ‘I know we can’t be together yet, but here, lemme give you some nice memories to use when you jerk off thinking about me.’” He glanced at Phil, who looked… well, like that hadn’t at all been his intention and he was questioning Clint’s taste level for thinking it might have been. “Okay, well, obviously not that, then. I feel kind of bad now.” He swallowed hard. “Have—Christ, Phil, please tell me I haven’t been jerking off over something that, like, traumatized you.”

“What? No!” Phil reached up with the hand not holding his coffee and cupped Clint’s cheek. “No, sweetheart, nothing like that, please don’t worry. The worst of it was being afraid I’d hurt you. Once I knew I hadn’t, the rest was just more of the same feelings I’d been dealing with since we met.” He tried to smile reassuringly, but Clint could see the shadow in his eyes, the memory of those lonely years when he’d thought Clint didn’t love him and never would.

Way to go, Barton. Try to get a little frisky memory-driven foreplay going and end up making your husband sad. On your _honeymoon_.

“I’m sorry,” Clint blurted, his hands flexing anxiously on Phil’s shoulders. “I didn’t mean to, to bring back bad memories, babe. We don’t have to talk about it anymore.”

“They’re not all bad,” Phil said, setting his coffee on the ground and stepping in to wrap his arms around Clint’s waist, resting his cheek against Clint’s. “There are so many good memories from that time, too. And I would live those years a hundred times if it meant that at the end of them I’d have you the way I do now.”

“But it still hurts you,” Clint murmured. He nuzzled against Phil’s face a little, loving the way their stubble rasped together, shivery-good.

Phil shrugged a little. “I spent twelve years loving you hopelessly and it’s been less than twelve months since I found out you love me back,” he said. “Sometimes it takes me a minute to remind myself of that.”

Clint clutched Phil tighter, flinching against the pang of hurt he still felt in his chest when he remembered how long Phil had suffered while Clint was oblivious. “I know a little what that’s like,” he said at last, his voice rough. “I mean, not for the same reasons, but—” he caught himself. “Nevermind, it’s nothing.”

“Clint,” Phil said, his breath on Clint’s ear making him shiver a little. 

“It’s nothing you need to worry about,” Clint said.

“Maybe not,” Phil said. “But don’t you think we’ve carried all our problems alone for too long already? Please tell me. I want to know.”

Clint sighed. “You know that picture I keep beside our bed?”

“The one of us on the porch swing rocking Nate and Lila?”

“Yeah. I, um. I keep it there because—and you are not allowed to feel bad over this, okay? Sometimes when we have to sleep apart—for missions or whatever—I, ah, I wake up and you aren’t there and I think that maybe I dreamed it all. That we never got married because you—you’re still—because you’re really dead.” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat roughly while Phil tightened his hold, turning his face in to press kisses on the hinge of Clint’s jaw. “I keep that picture next to the bed because you never saw the farm, before. You never even met the kids. So I can look over and there’s proof, you know? That you’re really here.” He sniffed. “Fuck, I’m terrible at honeymoon talk. I’m sorry, I’ll shut up.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Phil said fiercely. “Those things _happened_ , Clint. They’re a part of us just as much as anything else, and if they hadn’t happened, we wouldn’t be the people we are. I just hate that it hurt you so much. I wish I could have spared you that.”

“Yeah, well. Same,” Clint said, and let himself close his eyes and focus all his attention on Phil, the way he felt against Clint’s body: warm skin and firm muscle, the rasp of the silvered stubble Phil tended to sport any time he was going to be off work for a few days, the rise and fall of his chest, the beat of his heart. Present, vital, strong and alive and _Clint’s_ , given over to him, devoted. It made his chest clench and his dick twitch.

“I’ve got you now,” Clint said. “I’ve got you, and I’m keeping you.”

“Yes,” Phil said fiercely. “Yes. Always.”

They stood in silence for a while, just holding each other while the breeze tugged at their hair and the sun shone and the alpacas hummed happily in the background. It was different, it was so different from before, from all the times they’d been holed up together somewhere dark and cold. It was so different from that night in the van, the chill of the wee hours and the stale sex-smell, the whiffs of a stranger’s cologne and the bitterness of not being able to reach out to Phil like he’d wanted, to hold and love him like his heart cried out to do. And Phil, sitting there in the van beside him making small talk and feeling unwanted when it was the last thing in the world that was true.

“What would you have wanted,” Clint said at last, “if things had been different, back in Atlantic City that night? If we’d been together then, if we’d known, and you’d come back to me just like you did, only we both knew that you were coming back _to me_. What could I have done to help you?”

“I—” Phil sighed. “It’s hard to say—everything was so different then—but I think part of it was that…” he trailed off, like he couldn’t find the words he wanted, and pulled back a little, raking his hand through his hair, his expression frustrated.

“Take your time, Phil,” Clint said. “Whatever you want to tell me, I want to hear.”

“The way I was with the DiMarcos,” Phil said slowly. “I don’t usually… play like that with strangers. I know it might not seem that way from the outside, but it’s… there’s a vulnerability to it, from both sides. It takes a lot of trust. I haven’t felt comfortable doing it in… a long time. Not since—” he stopped. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Is this another relationship discussion we’re gonna need to have?” Clint asked, keeping his tone gentle and a little teasing despite the flipping sensation in his gut that couldn’t decide if it was excitement or envy.

“No, I—well. Maybe,” Phil said. “I, I don’t want you to think that I haven’t brought it up because I don’t want to do that with you, or that I don’t trust you, or anything like that, it’s just—things have been so—”

“Crazy?” Clint smiled at him. “I get it, babe. We’ve had less than a year together, and we keep getting interrupted by, you know, having to save the world and shit. We’ll get to everything, eventually. I’m not gonna be mad at you for prioritizing.”

Phil smiled back, his posture easing. “Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”

“So because Vinnie DiMarco saw you and wanted a taste—not that I blame him for that, much though I wanted to punch him at the time—you had to draw on something that you had only ever done with people you were close to, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Phil said. “And even though I ended up feeling sorry for the kid, it wasn’t the same as being with someone you know. I didn’t date a lot—we’ve talked about that—but there were… friends with benefits, I guess you’d call them. People I trusted with that part of myself. With the DiMarcos… I needed to take control of the situation, make it took as long as I needed it to, and the way he reacted in the bar it was pretty obvious that approach would work. It was the right choice, operationally speaking, but… it took something that used to be private for me, something I’d always kept away from work, and made it feel… polluted, almost. Cheap.”

Clint’s chest clenched, but he kept himself from interrupting; he could tell that Phil still had more to say.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Phil said. “Coming back there to you—you were great. Somehow you knew I needed that, that connection, and you were there with your smile and your protein bar and your hug—fuck, Clint, that was more meaningful than anything else I’d done that night. But if we’re playing what-if…”

“What would have happened?” Clint prompted. “If we’d been _us_ , back then?”

“I’d have gone back to the van,” Phil said, his eyes going distant. “And you’d have met me there, like you did, but as soon as I took the glasses off I’d have gone to you, held you—or been held by you, either way.”

Clint knew a good idea when he heard it; he opened his arms invitingly, and Phil smiled at him a little, wry, and stepped forward into them again.

“I would have known,” Clint said, his lips brushing Phil’s skin with each word. “I would have known that you’d had a hard time, and why. We’d have talked about it beforehand, when you were in the alley.”

“I’d have told you how much the connection meant, the trust,” Phil said. 

“And I would have told you, you’ve _got_ that connection, Phil,” Clint said. He moved his head a little, nudging into the frame of Phil’s glasses with his nose because he didn’t want to let go of him just yet. “You’re carrying me with you, baby, I’m seeing through your eyes. I’m with you the whole time, watching you kick ass and do good and getting turned on by how amazing you are.”

“I would have walked back to the van excited instead of afraid,” Phil said, pressing even closer to Clint. “Looking forward to seeing you, seeing how you were affected, seeing that you… that you wanted me.”

“Always did,” Clint said, kissing the closest bit of Phil’s skin to his lips. “Always will.” He closed his eyes, thinking back to that night. “As soon as you turned off the feed, I would have stood up to meet you,” he said, “and you would have been able to see how hard I was from watching you, but I wouldn’t have touched myself. I would have waited for you.”

“God,” Phil groaned. “I can picture it. You in your tac pants and that wifebeater—why did you take off your shirt, anyway? I always wondered.”

“I gave it to Nat,” Clint said. “Remember, all she had was that sparkly thing.”

“Oh, right. That makes sense.” Phil shook his head. “I think at the time I just thought fate was conspiring to torment me or something.”

“We aren’t talking about that, though,” Clint said, nipping gently at Phil’s earlobe. “We’re talking about how it would have gone.”

Phil smiled. “I would have seen you standing there,” he said. “Your arms bare, like they are now.” He let his hands glide down over Clint’s bare arms, skating over the muscles. “Hard for me.”

Clint’s dick throbbed in his jeans. “Mm, yeah,” he agreed, leaning over to kiss the sharp edge of Phil’s jaw. “So hard it hurt, Phil. Been watching you that whole time, wishing it was me you were fucking. Wishing I could get my mouth on that gorgeous cock of yours.” He closed his eyes, remembering how it had felt to sit there watching, how Phil had looked that night, the ache of anticipation he’d known would come to nothing yet.

“Your nipples are hard,” Phil murmured, his breath on Clint’s neck making him shiver. “I can see them through your shirt.”

“Turned on,” Clint said, his hands clutching at Phil’s back. “Touch ‘em.”

“It’s always made me crazy, when I can see them like that,” Phil said, kissing lower, nibbling at Clint’s collarbone between words. “It feels like I’m getting away with something, seeing a secret. Makes me imagine how they’d feel in my mouth.” His hands settled at the waist of Clint’s jeans, and he slipped his thumbs under Clint’s shirt, rubbing the skin of his flanks.

“Anytime you want,” Clint said, arching his back a little, pushing his chest forward. “Whatever you wanna do, babe.”

Phil’s hands slid upward, a little cool on Clint’s warm skin, and his breath caught as Phil’s thumbs brushed his nipples. “I’d have done this,” he said. “I’d touch you, feel you shiver under my hands and know it was for me, for the real me.”

“He didn’t know what he had,” Clint said, pressing his chest into Phil’s touch. “But I do. I’ve always known, even when I was bad at telling you so.”

“But this time, you’d have told me,” Phil said. He looked up from Clint’s chest; his eyes were big and bright behind his glasses, shining with emotion. 

“We’d still have been a secret, because of Barney, but you’d have known,” Clint said, and he could hear his own voice going wistful. “Every time we got disappointed I could have told you. You’d have been there, you—”

“I’d have gone to your apartment and held you, made sure you knew I was there for you, for all of you,” Phil said. “That you knew you weren’t alone.”

It sounded amazing; Clint’s eyes stung a little, thinking of it. “That op,” Clint said. “It was one of the times we thought Barney was almost through. I was so sure. I was starting to make plans, you know? How I’d ask you out. What I’d say. Where I’d take you—somewhere classy, show you I was worth your wait.”

“You were,” Phil said, eyes blazing. “You _are_. I would have waited the same time over again if it meant I got you at the end of it. Never think any different, Clint. Never.”

Clint took a deep, unsteady breath, unsure whether he wanted to hug Phil, or kiss him, or cry, or try to deny that sometimes still he wondered whether Phil had gotten the bad end of the bargain when he’d fallen in love with him. In the end, he reached out, resting his hands on Phil’s hips. 

“We would have been excited, that night,” he said, trying to put all his feelings into his voice. “We’d have thought we were getting close to the end of being a secret. I would have been watching the feed the whole time, knowing you were thinking of me, and planning how soon I was gonna be able to go to a bar like that with you and watch people want you and then come up to you myself, put my arm around you and kiss you and you’d, you’d smile at me that way you do and they would know they had no chance, that you were mine.”

“I think you overestimate the frequency that random people hit on me,” Phil said, with a wry little smile, “but I’ll kiss you in a bar any time you like.”

Clint leaned forward and kissed the turned-up corner of Phil’s mouth, the little dimple that Phil would deny he had, and then Phil’s lips. “Maybe I will,” he said, squeezing Phil’s hips a little, pulling him in almost enough for their bodies to touch, but not quite. The hair on his arms stood up, like his skin was trying to bridge the gap between them.

“So you’d have come in and seen me there,” he said against Phil’s cheek. “Hard for you. Waiting. And you’d come to me and touch me. And then what?”

“What did you want?” Phil nuzzled his cheek against Clint’s again, the stubble rasping deliciously. “What would you have wanted?”

“Fuck me,” Clint gasped. “God, I want, I wanted you to fuck me, Phil, so bad. Couldn’t believe how gorgeous your cock was, I needed to have it inside me.” 

“But I couldn’t have done it then,” Phil said. “I’d come too recently. If I was going to give you what you wanted I’d have had to make you wait.”

“Worth it,” Clint said, and they both knew he was talking about both times, about every time. 

“Then I’d have driven us back,” Phil said, his hands tracing over Clint’s chest beneath his shirt again, plucking at his nipples and making him gasp. “I’d have put you in the passenger seat beside me, and driven us back to the hotel with one hand in your lap so I could feel how hard you were for me, and I’d have said _don’t move, Clint, just sit there, just feel it for me._ ” His hand brushed the front of Clint’s jeans, molded over the bulge of his erection, and Clint moaned. Phil pulled back and grinned at him, full of challenge and teeth.

“I would have wanted you to wait,” he said. “But you already have, haven’t you? Over and over, when I didn’t even know. When I thought I was alone in the way I felt about you, you were right there, waiting for me, all that time.”

Clint nodded, biting his lip as Phil squeezed his cock. “It was worth every minute,” he said. “I would have waited forever for you.”

“I would have dropped off the van and the equipment,” Phil said, his voice low but intense. “I would have taken you back to the hotel. I would have given you my room key. I would have leaned in, and kissed you,” he did, a hard press of lips, “and then told you, Clint, _go upstairs and wait for me_.”

Clint met his eyes, and grinned at him, and took off toward the house at a dead run. It wasn’t easy, given the state of things inside his pants, but he’d sprinted while literally on fire before; he could handle it. (Yes, yes, stop drop and roll, but you had to get away from the on-fire thing first or you’d only compound the difficulties.)

He paused long enough to shed his farm boots on the porch, then barrelled up the stairs to their room—Clint’s old room, now made over with a big, solidly-built bed—no squeaks—that was placed far enough away from the wall to avoid the risk of banging headboards when they were, well, banging. He peeled himself out of his clothes, the slightly chilly air just making him more aware of his bare skin, making it feel sexier to be there in broad daylight, getting naked to wait for Phil. He checked the lube supply on the bedside table (getting low, but plenty for another session or two) then pondered how best to arrange himself. He was in a strange mood, electric and tender at once; he felt at the same time like today-Clint, on his honeymoon, and 2009-Clint, aching and desperate, and the unswerving focus of both Clints was somewhere downstairs, deciding how long he’d make Clint wait before he came to him and gave him what they both wanted.

Clint pulled back the covers, baring an expanse of crisp white sheet, and stacked the pillows up against the headboard. He settled in the middle of the bed, propped up a little on the pillows, and spread his legs just enough to make sure that nothing was blocking the view. Then he stretched his arms out to either side and wrapped his hands around the slats of the headboard. When Phil came in the door, he’d see Clint, spread out and ready, his hands well away from the straining erection on display.

Clint heard the door bang shut, and his cock twitched in anticipation, though he knew there was no guarantee it meant he’d get touched anytime soon. That just made it better, though; somehow, the knowledge that he was waiting—that he was up here naked and hard and wanting and he wasn’t going to touch himself, that his pleasure would come from Phil or not at all—made his skin prickle at every current of air, his nipples pebble and peak, his cock throb with each beat of his pulse.

Clint had spent years of his life waiting for Phil, but this was different. This time, he knew that Phil was coming soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! Thanks so much, everyone, for your kind comments and kudos! I'm glad you're enjoying reading this madness as much as I enjoyed writing it.


	5. Honeymoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good things come to those who wait.
> 
> Those who wait also get to come, which is one of the good things.
> 
> Either way, Clint's having a really good morning.

Clint closed his eyes and strained to hear Phil downstairs. He could hear his footsteps moving around, cabinets opening and closing, the sink turning on and off; he had no idea whether Phil was preparing something or just fucking around down there to give Clint time to get nice and wound up; Clint was good either way, honestly. Whichever it was, it felt like ages before he finally heard the distinctive squeaking of the stairs.

He’d left the door ajar but pulled nearly shut, and it creaked a little as Phil swung it open. He had a canvas shopping bag slung over one shoulder and a stack of towels in his hands, and he stopped dead in the middle of the floor when he caught sight of Clint and just stared, his throat working as he visibly swallowed hard, making a sexy, half-vocalized sound that lit Clint’s nerves on fire.

“Here I am,” Clint said, his voice rough. “Just like you said.” 

“There you are,” Phil repeated, advancing on the bed with blazing eyes. “Like a dream brought to life.”

“But real,” Clint said. “Here. Nothing between us anymore.”

Phil dumped the towels and shopping bag on the floor next to the bed and crawled on top of Clint, his clothes rasping excitingly over Clint’s bare skin, making him feel startlingly exposed and tender, defenseless by choice and offered up to Phil like a turtle out of its shell. It was good, though, so good; Phil pressed Clint’s body down into the bed and kissed him, desperate and a little bitey, leaving flushed round marks on Clint’s chest, his throat, the soft skin on the backs of his arms. He wrapped his fingers tighter around the headboard and sank into the sensation and the mattress, his focus narrowing until his world was Phil, Phil’s weight and strength and scent and touch, his greedy lips and gentle hands.

Phil moved down far enough to suck on Clint’s left nipple, and Clint went tense with the effort of not letting go of the headboard and reaching down to… to pull Phil off, or maybe hold his head right where it was, or maybe push it over to the other side. Clint whimpered, then moaned, letting himself bleed out some of the tension by making sounds, because Phil seemed in no hurry at all to move on. He suckled until Clint’s nipple was sensitized and swollen, then pulled back and blew on it, making it pucker up tight and achy, then lapped at it gently with a warm soft tongue, then nipped it lightly between his teeth, then started doing everything again in a different order. Clint gave up trying to follow or guess what would come next, just let himself feel it, so good but so hard to bear, his neglected right nipple as stiff as his cock was, but without even the occasional pleasure-pain rough brushes against Phil’s jeans to relieve the ache. When Phil finally raised his head, his mouth wet and flushed, his eyes gleaming behind smeared glasses that he’d apparently forgotten to take off in his haste to get his lips on Clint’s body, all Clint could do was pant for breath and stare at him, all he could say was his husband’s name.

“Phil,” he whispered, and it meant _I love you so much and I always have_ , it meant _goddamn but you’re sexy_ , it meant _how did I get so fucking lucky?_

Phil sat up, straddling Clint’s waist, and spread his hands out over Clint’s chest; his fingers brushed over Clint’s sore nipples, making him jolt and groan. “Clint,” he said, and nobody on earth said Clint’s name that way, nobody else but Phil. “Christ, I want to take you to pieces, sweetheart, I want to make you fall apart saying my name just like that.”

“Then do it,” Clint said, arching his back, pressing his chest into Phil’s hands even as the pressure on the left nipple made him hiss at the same time it made his cock jerk. “I want you to.”

“Back then,” Phil said, tracing his hands over Clint’s chest, “I never turned down an opportunity to spend time with you, to be near you. I knew I should. I knew I’d never be able to move on if I didn’t make myself get some distance. But I didn’t care. I wanted everything you were willing to give me.” He bit his lip, his eyes bright with emotion. “That never changed. I—I still want everything you’re willing to give me.”

“That works out,” Clint murmured. He let go of the bed, reaching up to run his hands over Phil’s face, stubbled and gorgeous and heart-wrenchingly dear. “Because I want to give you everything, and I want to take everything you give back. I want us to go back and forth forever, for—for as long as we both shall live.” He cleared his throat, his voice catching at the memory of saying those words to Phil during their wedding, of how very real they were, how much they both meant them. “No more wasted time.”

“No more,” Phil agreed, turning his head to kiss Clint’s hand.

“What did you want to give me, back then?” Clint asked. “What did you want to watch me take?”

Phil closed his eyes, a flicker of a frown appearing between his brows, but it wasn’t a bad face; it was his thinking face, familiar and dear. “You… you used to look so tired, sometimes,” he said quietly. “Worn. Sad. I guess you were worried about… the whole situation, here?”

“Yeah,” Clint said. “It got to me, sometimes. Harder, because I couldn’t really talk about it to anyone but Laura.”

Phil kissed his hand again. “I didn’t know the full story behind it, obviously, but I could tell,” he said. “I used to wish I could take care of you. Give you… pleasure, yes, but also affection. Make you feel cared for, make you smile. It… I know it’s corny, and not really appropriate for the relationship we had then, but I couldn’t help it sometimes.”

Clint’s heart thumped hard in his chest, overwhelmed with a wave of love. He sat up, bringing himself chest-to-chest with Phil, and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him as close as he could and sighing happily when Phil immediately held him back just as tight.

“You give me all’a that, baby,” Clint said, his lips brushing Phil’s ear. He could feel a shiver ripple down his skin, and pressed a kiss to Phil’s cheek. “You always did, even back then. Not the sex, no, but I always knew I was safe with you, loved and special. I always knew you cared. You always made me happy. It wasn’t fair—I shoulda been making you happy right back and I wasn’t—but you were always that for me, even on the days I thought we’d have to wait forever.”

“You _did_ make me happy, Clint,” Phil said, pulling back enough to meet his eyes. “Not—that part was hard, yes, but I was still happier to know you, to have you in my life at all, than I would have been without you. That’s why I never—my life was better with you as my friend than it would have been with someone else as my lover. I made that choice over and over, for years. And I would again, knowing what I know now. Even though it hurt. I would, every time.”

Clint’s eyes burned, and he buried his face in Phil’s shoulder, his hands fisting in Phil’s shirt as he gave up pretending to do anything but cling. Phil’s weight felt so good on Clint’s lap, his clothes felt so good against Clint’s skin, his body felt so good in Clint’s arms.

“I don’t deserve you,” Clint said into Phil’s shirt. “But fuck, sweetheart, I am so damn glad I have you anyway.”

Phil’s arms tightened around him. “I feel the same way,” he said.

Clint chuckled. “We’re saps,” he said. “Each of us as bad as the other.”

“Yeah,” Phil said, and the contentment in his voice was like sinking into a hot bath. “Good thing.”

They sat there for a while, just holding on, until Clint’s thighs started to tingle from Phil’s weight and Clint’s neglected arousal started to ache in the not-fun way, and he pulled back reluctantly. “So,” he said, leaning back on his hands. “You wanted to take care of me. Take _good_ care of me.” He waggled his eyebrows to make Phil laugh, grinning at the little chuckle he earned; it worked every time. “You’ve got me at your mercy. What’cha gonna do with me now?”

Phil’s eyes darkened, and his gaze flicked hungrily over Clint’s bare chest. “I’ve got a few ideas.”

Clint leaned in for one more kiss, lingering and sweet, then stretched back out on the pillows, his arms spread like he was presenting himself as a game-show prize. “Go on, then,” he said. “I’m all yours.”

Phil bent down, running his lips over Clint’s cheek, skating over the edge of his jaw, down his carotid artery, over his collarbone and down to his barely-touched right nipple.

“I hate to leave a job half done,” he said, in the same tone he used for all his terrible jokes, half pleased with his own wit and half already laughing at how cheesy it was, and Clint loved him so much, he’d loved him for so long, he was going to love him forever.

Clint shivered as Phil’s lips just barely brushed his aching flesh. “That’s what I love about you, babe,” he said, “you—” and then Phil closed his mouth around him and sucked hard, and he was too distracted by Phil’s wicked mouth and agile tongue working him over to finish the thought.

Clint sank into it, reaching up and taking hold of the headboard again and giving himself over, letting himself make whatever noises came to him, letting himself arch and writhe just to feel Phil’s weight bearing him down, the texture of his clothes, the flex of his muscles. He didn’t know how long it took—his time sense had long been de-prioritized in favor of more concentration on how shockingly good Phil’s jeans felt rasping over his dick—but eventually Phil sat up again, looking down at Clint’s reddened and ravaged chest with a smug mouth and hot eyes.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice gone quiet and breathy, almost reverent. “God, _look_ at you, you’re so beautiful.”

“You can do more than look,” Clint said. His voice came out rough, dry from panting for breath while Phil worked him over. He licked his lips. “Whatever you want, babe.”

“Before,” Phil said, hesitating a little, “you said that while you were in the van, you wanted—”

“Your cock,” Clint said. “Yes, I did, I do, Phil—please?”

“Anything you want,” Phil murmured, bending down to kiss Clint’s lips again. “Anything, sweetheart, only let me stay close to you?” There was something soft and vulnerable in his voice, in the way he ducked to mouth at Clint’s shoulder, his face hidden.

Clint let go of the headboard and wrapped Phil in his arms. He wasn’t sure if Phil was reacting to the memory of Atlantic City, or the memory of the lonely time before they were together, or just to the intensity of the moment; it didn’t matter. Clint’s heart swelled with protectiveness and love, and he luxuriated in the feeling of Phil’s shoulders loosening, the contented sigh that fell from his lips when Clint squeezed him tight. “Of course,” Clint said gently, his lips half-buried in Phil’s hair. “I’d love that, Phil. How do you want me?”

Phil got up, climbing off Clint; Clint couldn’t help a whine of disappointment at losing the hot press of him.

“Shh,” Phil soothed. “Just give me a minute, okay?” He started undressing, deft flicks of his lovely fingers opening buttons and zippers, and Clint watched hungrily as Phil stripped, leaving his clothes in a pile before climbing back up onto the edge of the bed.

“Can you move over for a minute?” he asked. “I want to get in the middle; I’ve got an idea.”

“I like your ideas,” Clint said, scooting to the side. “Well, mostly. There was that time in Albuquerque.”

Phil rolled his eyes, not pausing in his effort to stack all the pillows on the bed, including the dense wedge ones that were meant as backrests for sitting up, into a big pile up against the headboard. When he was satisfied, he settled himself against the big pile, thought for a minute, then leaned over to grab a few of his towels, lifting his hips to spread one out under him and shoving a few more under his knees. He ended up sitting nearly upright with his knees propped up. His thighs and torso sloped down toward each other, forming a V with Phil’s straining cock jutting up from its center, a perfect space to cradle Clint’s ass as Phil fucked up into his body.

At least, that was where Clint hoped this was going. He bit back a whimper as Phil got settled; he could almost feel how good it would be, settling into that enticing spot, his back braced against Phil’s thighs, Phil’s upper body close enough to kiss and touch.

“Come straddle me, but don’t sit down yet,” Phil said, patting the mattress beside his hip.

“Yes, _sir,_ ” Clint said, scrambling to obey. Phil’s bare flanks felt amazing between his knees as he climbed into place, warm and a little fuzzy, moving softly as Phil breathed.

Phil reached around and cupped Clint’s ass in both hands, squeezing a little. Phil’s cock was lying hard and red against his belly, and it took all Clint’s willpower not to sink down and grind his own cock against it. Phil met Clint’s eyes—easy to do, from that angle—and smiled at him knowingly.

“Can you stay up for me until I tell you?” he asked. “I want to get you ready.” 

“As long as you want,” Clint promised, his skin prickling with his eagerness for Phil to be inside him—fingers or cock, whatever Phil wanted; it was all amazing.

“I’m so lucky,” Phil said. He leaned up the short distance to kiss Clint, not particularly rough but commanding and sure. Clint felt swept up, enveloped and claimed and sheltered by him; he barely even missed it when Phil took his hands off Clint’s ass to do something that Clint couldn’t see (though he had his suspicions, which were confirmed when the hands returned, one pulling his cheeks apart and the other pushing between them, cool and slick with lube.)

Clint gasped into the kiss when Phil’s finger pushed straight inside him, no preamble or playing around; he was still a little loose from the night before (they were on their _honeymoon_ , after all), but it was still unexpected, the stretch just on the right side of uncomfortable, and it felt so good that he couldn’t help arching backwards, pushing his hips back into Phil’s grip, chasing more. Phil’s eyes sparkled behind his smeared glasses, and Clint reached out and gently lifted them off his nose, stretching out a little to lay them on the nightstand.

“Now you don’t have to be careful,” he told Phil, clenching down around his finger to emphasize his point. “Promise I’ll stay close enough to see.”

Phil crooked his finger a little, just barely nudging Clint’s prostate, and Clint sucked in a breath at the sudden jolt of pleasure.

“My favorite view,” Phil murmured, his eyes flicking up and down as though he couldn’t decide what part of Clint he wanted to look at the most. Clint felt his face heat, feeling suddenly bashful; it was something about the look on Phil’s face, open need and naked love, so intense that Clint wanted to look away, like Phil was a light too bright to focus on for long. He bit his lip, though, and made himself keep his eyes up. If Phil could look like that, could bare his emotions for Clint after everything, then the least Clint could do was give him the respect of seeing him. Phil’s willing vulnerability and trust were piercing, like a blade so slim and sharp you barely noticed it enter your heart.

“You’re killing me, baby,” Clint muttered, trying fruitlessly to blink away the sting behind his eyes. “You don’t have to—you know I’m yours, I’m a sure thing, you don’t have to, to flatter me.”

“All the more reason why I should,” Phil said, with that note in his voice that meant he’d made up his mind, and maybe he’d listen politely to your objections but they weren’t going to change it one bit. “You deserve to hear it. You deserve everything I can give you.”

Clint thought he made a sound, but he wasn’t paying attention to what kind; he was too busy kissing the words right off Phil’s lips, because he couldn’t _not_ be kissing him, not when he was saying those things, and also maybe Clint didn’t know if he could stand to hear more of them. They were so much, was the thing, they meant _so much_ , and if Clint started thinking about them, and about Phil, and about everything that had happened to get them into that bed together, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t just… explode or something, cry or laugh hysterically or shake himself to pieces, and this wasn’t the time for that. This was the time for Phil to—

“God, baby, fuck me now, before I die of waiting,” he mumbled into the kiss.

Phil chuckled a little, warm and rumbly in his chest where it was pressed against Clint’s, and slid his finger out. Before Clint had a chance to do more than make a sharp little noise of protest, Phil pushed back in with two, stroking Clint’s walls and tugging softly at his rim. Everything was slick and warm, feeling so good that Clint sagged forward, letting his weight press Phil back into his pillow mountain. He nosed at the sweet hollow of Phil’s throat, pressing kisses to the thin skin there in between the little pleasure sounds that he didn’t bother trying not to make every time Phil’s fingers did something that felt extra good, which was pretty often. Phil wrapped his other arm around Clint, holding him tight, and Clint just let himself luxuriate in it, in being surrounded and filled, safe and warm and feeling so good, looking forward to feeling better still as Phil went from two fingers to three. Clint could take a quicker stretch—if they’d been fucking on the regular for a week or two, he could take Phil with no stretch at all as long as they went slow—but as fun as that could be, there was something about Phil’s gradual, deliberate fingering that just felt right for the moment, drawing everything out like taffy until the pleasure stretched and doubled back on itself, until everything extraneous fell away. 

Eventually, Phil decided it was time to move on, and Clint felt shockingly hollow when he pulled his fingers out, Clint’s body flexing helplessly around empty air. He whimpered a little—he couldn’t help it, didn’t even think of trying, because he’d long since gone past the point where all his reactions were bypassing his brain entirely on the way to his mouth—and Phil kissed his temple soothingly. “Shh, I’m not leaving,” he said. “Here,” and Clint felt the soft hot skin of Phil’s cockhead pressing against his hole and trembled all over with the effort it took not to drive himself back onto it immediately.

“Please,” he managed, and Phil arched up a bit, pushing inside just enough to be not nearly enough, a tease that was almost worse than being empty.

“Sit back, then,” Phil said. “Nice and slow, sweetheart, I want to make it last.”

It was hard, it was so hard, but good, too; Clint lowered himself onto Phil’s cock as slowly as he could, concentrating on the way it felt, trying to feel every fraction of an inch as it entered him, spreading him out and filling him up, so solid and heavy and hot and good inside, pressing on all his hidden places and making him shake under Phil’s caressing hands.

“Fuck,” Phil said, his voice soft and rough, almost reverent. “The _look_ on your face.” He leaned up, catching Clint’s mouth in a kiss, his clean hand skating up Clint’s back to tangle in the hair at the back of his head, firm and proprietary. It made Clint want to go pliant, want to follow wherever Phil led; it felt safe, it felt like belonging. He made a content noise into the kiss, clenching down on Phil’s cock to feel the way it made his hands tighten their grip.

“Is this what you’d have done?” Clint asked, when they’d finally broken apart to breathe. He rubbed his lips over Phil’s stubbled jaw, too light to do anything but make them tingle, but he loved it. “Had me ride you like this, slow as we could stand it?”

Phil tipped his head back, baring his throat to Clint’s explorations, and as Clint leaned forward to follow him he could feel Phil’s cock sliding out, so gradual it hardly even counted as a thrust. He still felt every inch, though, and stopped before it could leave him entirely, setting his teeth around the tendon of Phil’s neck and giving him the barest hint of pressure before backing off, pulling back with mouth and body and sinking down again.

Phil laughed a little, breathy and shaking. “I don’t think so,” he admitted. “I—I don’t think I’d have been that patient, then. I’d been waiting so long, and I think I’d… I’ve have been afraid it would be—ah! My only chance.”

Clint bottomed out again and rolled his hips a little, just to feel it, to feel Phil inside him so solid and real. It was grounding, weird though that sounded; it felt like belonging and security, like home.

“We can do this every day,” he said. “Twice a day.” He pulled up again, this time bracing his hands on Phil’s broad chest and moving up like he was posting on a horse, to see if it was better that way.

Hard to tell. He’d have to try it both ways a couple more times to be sure.

“Some days we have missions,” Phil said, though he didn’t sound terribly convinced, his mouth wet and rosy, his eyes shining.

Clint waved a hand dismissively, overbalanced a little, and sunk back down faster than he’d meant to, making them both groan. He could feel the vibration of Phil’s voice through his thighs, and it was about the most amazing thing ever. “Missions, schmissions,” he said hoarsely. “My new mission is to uncover the secret of how many times two men over forty can come in a week.”

“I’d be happy to run support,” Phil said. He seemed to have forgotten—or possibly stopped caring, like Clint totally had—which of his hands had the lube on it, and was stroking up and down Clint’s flanks. His latest prosthetic tended to run a few degrees hotter than Phil’s flesh hand, and the feel of one warm hand and one cool one had come to mean Phil to him, to mean love and home and safety and desire.

“Yeah?” Clint decided to try some smaller strokes, now, easy, like the waves at low tide. “You gonna call my shots, sir? I think I like that idea.” He squeezed around Phil again, and Phil’s eyes fluttered shut, his brow creasing a little—a concentrating look, like Phil wanted to memorize him. “Like you would have done in Jersey.”

Phil reached up to hold the back of Clint’s neck again, drawing him down, until they were chest to chest, faces close. “I would have,” he said. “I may still. But this—Clint. This is so much better than the might-have-beens.”

“Yeah,” Clint said, and if his face was a little wet as he leaned in to kiss Phil some more, it wasn’t like there was anyone to judge.

Clint didn’t know what good he’d ever done that would make him deserve this moment; maybe some things couldn’t be earned. Maybe some things were just a, a blessing from the universe, cheesy as it sounded; a gift. Phil’s face was flushed, sweat-damp and beautiful, looking up at Clint like—well. It was a good look, that made something hot and precious swell in Clint’s chest.

They rocked together there, trading breath and kisses, for… a while, some time, it didn’t matter how much; they had as much time as they liked, now. They built the pleasure between them bit by bit, every roll of hip and brush of tongue another part, until suddenly they couldn’t stand it anymore; they sped their pace, finally chasing the orgasm they’d spent so long flirting with. Phil found Clint’s prostate, the perfect angle, and held there until Clint couldn’t stand it any longer, tipping over with a wavering gasp and then burying his face in Phil’s shoulder while Phil clutched at him for a few more ragged thrusts before he came, too.

Clint never wanted to move, but eventually his legs started to protest being folded up like a pretzel, and he shifted, sighing as the movement pushed Phil’s softening cock fully out of him.

“Stay there,” he said, flopping over onto his side right next to Phil on the foothills of the pillow mountain. He crowded against him, throwing an arm and a leg over him and nuzzling as close as he could get. Mmm.

Phil wormed an arm out from under Clint to wrap it properly around his shoulders and kissed his temple. “For a little while,” he agreed, his voice gone warm and lazy and slow. Happy. It was so good to hear Phil sound happy, so good to know it was because of him. Clint closed his eyes and hugged Phil tight and just drifted, warm and drowsy and loose and perfect.

“We should get up,” Phil said, some time later.

Clint made a protesting noise. He wasn’t asleep, not so early in the day, but he wasn’t ready to get out of bed and put on clothes yet, either.

“We’re on vacation,” he pointed out, lifting his face a little so his words wouldn’t get lost against Phil’s skin. “On our _honeymoon_ , even, that’s like super extra vacation where you fuck all the time and don’t wear pants.”

Phil chuckled. “Still, though,” he said. “The sheets are a lost cause, but we don’t want to stain the mattress.”

Clint suddenly noticed how sticky he was everywhere, damn it. And there was something of a puddle under his ass; Phil had been really thorough with the lube. And other things. Heh.

“Babe, this house has three kids under the age of fourteen living in it,” he said. “Everything in here’s either machine washable or waterproofed, and that includes all the mattresses. Lila went through a wandering bedwetter phase.”

“Practical,” Phil said. He rubbed Clint’s back idly, tracing over the lines of his muscles. “Well. It _is_ our honeymoon.”

Clint grinned. “That’s the spirit,” he said, pressing a kiss to the bit of Phil’s skin closest to his mouth. “Gotta keep focused on our mission. Maybe make a spreadsheet.”

“I’m not project-managing our orgasms, Clint.” Phil’s hand smoothed over the curve of his hip. “As you keep reminding me, I’m on vacation.”

“You say that,” Clint said. “And yet. You’re already thinking when we can go again, aren’t you? You’re timing it out.”

“…maybe,” Phil admitted. 

Clint chuckled. “I’m thinking, snuggle until noonish, then food, then we can try for number three today.”

“Wait, three?”

“We didn’t finish last night until like 2,” Clint said. “That counts.”

“Three, then,” Phil said, sounding sleek and satisfied and terribly dear. Clint’s throat ached with how much he loved him.

“Three,” Clint agreed, and snuggled back in to bask until lunchtime.

He’d have to see about re-enacting one of Phil’s favorite missions, he thought, just before he dropped into a blissful drowse. He wondered how hard it was to find a gondola.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! Thank you so much for your comments and kudos, and for coming with me on this ride. Tune in next time, for a story where Clint is a sorcerer and Phil is a dragon!


	6. Art by Snow: Hot Guys and Baby Animals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amazing illustration of Chapter 1 by the awesome Snow!

Look how cute everyone is!!! I love it!


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